Endgame
by jadey36
Summary: Everything is a choice, everything we do. And I made a choice. I chose him. A/N: Sequel to Everything is a Choice. NOTE: Everything is a Choice has been rewritten (completed 16 Dec 2013). Because of that rewrite and additional chapters/changes made, Endgame will also undergo a rewrite (probably in spring/summer 2014).
1. Home

**Author's Note: **this is the sequel to Everything is a Choice. That story was rewritten (completed December 2013). Therefore, this story will also undergo a rewrite, probably in spring/summer 2014.

* * *

**Home**

Locksley.

My home.

Lost to me in all but name during my foolish adolescence, when I spent more time playing the smart-arse than being a responsible landlord. Lost to me when I left for the Holy Land, no longer so idiotic, but still a fool, chasing a dream of honour and glory when I should have known better. When I should have learned to listen to the girl I loved, who despite performing some idiotic stunts of her own sometimes, saw things a little clearer than I did back then. And lost to me on my return from the war, when I chose to defy the new Sheriff of Nottingham and became an outlaw.

So, am I to lose it yet again, by dint of my present behaviour? I'm not sure idiotic can even begin to sum it up.

"Are you all right?" Guy asks.

My answer is to slip a hand into his and draw him closer to my side.

Because idiot or no, I am doing this.

There is no reason to delay. I am ready.

However, it is enough, this sight of my beloved Locksley. Smoke from winter fires. Small children larking about at the pond's edge. Two young women laughing as they struggle to hang linen to dry in the chill November wind. Enough to give me reason to pause – but not enough to dissuade me from my present path. Only he alone can do that, and the warm hand resting in mine proves that this is the last thing on his mind.

Locksley village.

It is an image I often bring to mind whenever I find my life spiralling out of control, like some kind of soothing balm, a promise that life will be good again, one day. Certain. Solid. Ordinary.

_Ordinary._

I nearly choke on the word.

There has been nothing ordinary about the course of my life, and certainly not the past few months. Burying my beloved Marian in Acre. Narrowly escaping a pirate's sword destined for my heart. Dragged from the cruel sea after our boat sank, and saved from the depths of despair and the desire to do no more than give up.

And now, here I am, standing atop this familiar grassy hill, looking down at my home. Standing next to the man who has given me reason to go on. Who has gone from being my enemy, to my friend, and who is now about to become my lover, given the chance.

Guy of Gisborne.

"Robin?"

Gallivanting - that's what I'd said to Much. As though we'd been discussing some kind of frivolous game. But standing here, contemplating my village and my people, it feels anything but frivolous. It feels serious. It feels dark and seductive and I have to admit, I half wonder if my lascivious cravings are due to nothing more than a fanatical desire to bring about my own end – because I let Marian down.

Correction – we let Marian down.

_Hell, Robin, you and he deserve one another._

Of course, there is still time. I can still choose not to cross that final line. Tell him I have changed my mind. Tell him now and walk away. Go make friends with my gang again. Go be Robin Hood.

The winter wind is biting, but I notice his hand is hot as he laces our fingers together. It strikes me he's stopped wearing those trademark gloves of his. I'm not complaining, but I can't think straight while we are touching and I make a half-hearted attempt to wrest my hand from his.

Guy turns to face me, his blue eyes questioning – eyes no longer full of hate or anger – but honest, appraising, respectful even.

I leave my hand where it is.

"Are you all right with this?" he asks.

"Of course," I smile. "But we can't—"

"No, we can't."

"The gang is one thing," I say, "but not the villagers, they wouldn't understand."

"It's all right, Robin."

I like it when he says my first name. He's been doing it a lot today. Perhaps he likes the feel of it on his tongue. He makes me smile, this new Guy.

"When we're in the house," I say. It is a promise. One that I will keep.

"I'm not sure I can wait that long."

Is he making a joke? I don't know. He used to be so serious. Before me. Before this.

"It's only a short walk, Guy."

"Yes, but you'll have to explain what I'm doing here, won't you?"

With his free hand, he indicates the smattering of villagers going about their daily tasks.

"Don't worry. I have a plan."

"Isn't that what you always say?"

"Fair point. But I do."

He looks at me, expectant.

I do have a plan, well, half a plan. I do. But anything could happen. Not everything is in my control. Not everything is a choice.

"Come here," I say.

I slip my hands under his long dark hair, rest them on his warm neck and seek out his mouth with my own. This togetherness, tongues and warm breaths, is enough to silence his fears.

It is only meant as a placatory kiss – a promise of what is to come. But I have been in an anticipatory state ever since we left the gang in the forest some short time ago, and it would be so easy just to give into it and slink back into the cover of the trees. Only the thought of discovery by our mutual enemy, namely Prince John, or his guards at least, prevents me from suggesting such.

Guy makes a small groaning noise and I know I need to stop. I need to stop right now. It will never do for Robin Hood to be walking into his village in such an obvious state of arousal. I mean, surely no one can be that happy about being home?

"Soon," I tell him. My rapid breaths give me away and with a self-satisfied grin, Guy releases me.

Content things will come to pass, we stand in quiet contemplation of Locksley village.

_No reason to delay._

I shoulder my bow.

"Robin?"

Guy catches hold of my upper arm. His eyes are dark pools, deep, unfathomable.

"Yes?"

"We can go back to the forest – or I can—"

"Go on." I need to hear what he has to say.

"I don't mean stay with your gang. There's a cave. I could stay there."

I'm not sure if he is trying to make this easier for me, for himself, or for the both of us. But my mind is made up, and has been for some time. Stubborn would be a polite way of putting it. Bloody minded more like.

"No. Locksley is my home and yours too. And we can make this work, if we're careful."

"I'm not sure."

"Trust me," I say. "Just a hundred paces or so and we'll be behind closed doors."

"It feels like a long walk right now."

"Just what do I need to do to convince you?"

He cocks his head at me, grins. "Honest answer?"

I like kissing him. But I can't decide. Is it his kiss in particular, or the sheer wantonness of kissing a man that I find so hellishly exciting? I don't know. I don't think I want to know. If I do have any care at all, it's at how little encouragement I need.

"No!" I protest, shoving him backwards.

This is not getting us home.

Guy is not bothered by my abrupt dismissal of him – in fact, he is positively amused.

"Have I said you're a damn good kisser, Locksley?"

"Several times," I retort, trying but failing to keep my smile in check.

Guy tosses back his head and laughs – an abandoned laugh. I really like him like this, much more than I should. And I see something. A shadow of Marian that shouldn't be there – but is.

"Shall we go home then?" he asks.

Everything is a choice, everything we do.

Her words, not mine.

And I had chosen Guy, against all the odds, and maybe against my better judgment. I don't regret the choice, and nor have I come to it lightly. Because until that moment he kissed me, in the forest, up until then I had fought it tooth and nail, thinking it was all some weird part of the grieving process for Marian and hoping it would go away. But it didn't go away. And I made a choice.

"Come on," I urge, grabbing his hand and then just as quickly letting go – because that's how it will have to be.

Guy nods. He understands.

Keeping a civilised distance between us, we head down the hill, towards Locksley Manor.

Towards home, and an uncertain future.

**to be continued...**


	2. A Short Walk

**A Short Walk**

I had hoped we could make our way unimpeded. That we could open the door to Locksley Manor and simply lock it behind us. But we barely reach the outskirts of the village before we are being pointed and gesticulated at by a small clutch of Locksley's children.

Guy is right. It's going to be a bloody long walk.

I lengthen my stride and steal a glance at the leather-clad man walking beside me – the one I'm about to let into my home and, quite possibly, my heart.

Guy doesn't care about the villagers. Defiance oozes from him. It makes him appear taller than me, even though there is very little between us on that score. And he is smiling, knows he is safe with me, precisely because he is with me.

News of our arrival has spread fast. Villagers are spilling out of doorways, laying down their tools or their children, their conversations petering out as they watch our approach. Despite their mistrust of Guy, they see no obvious reason to scatter to the four winds as they did that bloodthirsty day just a couple of weeks ago. The day I left a trail of blood in my wake. The day I took Rowena, their new guardian angel, from them, and since when there has been no word of our whereabouts. But they are suspicious, and it wouldn't surprise me if they thought I'd thrown in my lot with Prince John, considering my present companion.

They have every right, of course. Guy was once their cruel master. They had had to endure his angry tirades, his ruthless hand and his cold stares. Everything from the sharp sting of a mocking taunt, to the barbarity of his condoning the cutting out of tongues. They do not trust him, and they do not understand why he walks beside me now, neither in shackles, nor in shame.

Nessa is the first to approach.

"Master, Robin?" She gives a deferential bob of her head, flicks a questioning glance at Guy.

"Nessa." I wait for her usual maternal hug and receive none.

She had plenty of hugs for me the last time we met, in her overcrowded little house, surrounded by her many children and dresses and little pots of lavender. Before we'd discovered a fevered Guy in our camp, before Matilda had offered to poison him, and before that moment I held his hand in mine and knew that I wanted him.

It crosses my mind that Matilda has told them. I quickly dismiss it. Matilda promised to keep my want of Guy to herself and, if there is one thing I know about that woman, it is that she is always true to her word. So, what would she think of me now, bringing Guy here, to Locksley?

_Just think about it, eh love. I mean, would you really want to trade them for him?_

I guess I'd answered that one.

"Nessa," I try again. "How are you?"

"Big." She concedes a smile. "And tired," she adds, stroking her swollen abdomen.

"And are you all right?"

She knows I mean in terms of food and money. This new baby will make seven children, eight if you count her husband, who would do well to learn to count. Nessa had jokingly offered me one or two of her children while I had sat breaking bread in her house, still unaware that among the many dresses awaiting her sewing skills, Marian's favourite hung – the reason for my hasty retreat.

My chest tightens. Despite all that is now, the memories, these constant small reminders of her, still catch at my heart. True, the rawness is gone. But when I am reminded, I find I still lose a breath or two.

"We'll be fine, Master Robin, but what about—"

She gives Guy another quick look and presses her lips together, unable or unwilling to say what is on her mind.

The villagers have formed into semi-circle and it is apparent they are waiting for me to speak.

I want to say Guy, but I'm not sure I can get away with calling him that in front of them. Gisborne doesn't feel right either.

"Sir, Guy," I eventually manage, "is on our side now."

Mutterings of dissent ripple through the assembled villagers. I give them a hard stare and they cast their eyes downward, instantly apologetic at talking out of turn in front of their rightful master.

"We have come to an understanding," I explain.

Guy snorts and I'm sorely tempted to kick him.

"For the next few days he will be a guest in my house," I say, "and will be treated accordingly."

Although still clearly suspicious, it appears no one is about to question my reasons or motives.

I don't know what else to say. As far as I'm concerned the matter is closed.

Guy clears his throat as if to speak. I quickly motion him down with a flick of my hand. I don't like the idea of him giving a speech, especially as one word out of turn from one of the villagers might invoke that quick temper of his. I'm damned if I'm going to get into a fight with him before we even reach the privacy of the house. Although – considering how turned on I'd been at the mere thought of our last big fist fight – it's quite possible I'll end up kissing him instead of killing him and that will leave the villagers in no doubt that I've either turned to the Devil or gone mad.

Thankfully, he holds his tongue.

Realising I have spoken my piece, the villagers shuffle backwards, at the same time creating a small opening for Guy and me to walk through. I nod in appreciation and take a breath, only just remembering not to reach for his hand.

I can feel the villagers' eyes on our backs as, shoulder to shoulder, we walk the final few paces to the house – our promised land.

The front door. In or out? My choice.

Our hands collide as we both reach for the door latch at the same time.

"After you." Guy makes an exaggerated show of waving me in. "It is _your_ house, after all."

I bite my tongue and push open the door.

_No reason to delay. I am ready._

In or out? I can't seem to move.

With a grunt of annoyance, Guy nudges me aside. He unsheathes his sword and carefully rests it by the doorway, shrugs off his thick outer coat, lays it on a nearby chair and walks purposefully to the heavy dining table. Finally, he turns, looks me up and down.

"What's the matter? Décor not to your liking?"

I can't tell if he's trying to be funny, or if he's irritated at my inability to make a move. Either way, I step into the hall. The loud boom of the door shutting seals the deal – and quite possibly my fate.

Guy leans against the table, folds his arms across his chest. I'm not sure what this means. Perhaps it's a test. To find out if I meant everything I said before. It's very quiet in the house, but my heart is more than making up for it.

"I'm just going to look around," I tell him. "Check the place out."

"What?" Guy sneers. "Worried your precious gang might have beaten us here and are waiting to spring out on us while we're—"

I think he is enjoying my discomfort.

"I won't be long."

"I'm sure you won't," he smirks.

Feeling something of an idiot, I make my way upstairs.

What is wrong with me? I'd been positively aching for him, up on the hill – ever since our first kiss in fact, and that 'almost moment' in the camp. So why hesitate, now that we've finally made it to the sanctuary of the house?

Is it because the act itself can never live up to my wild imaginings? Is it no more than a battle of wills – a continuation of our age old warring – to see who will cave in first? Or is it something else, perhaps the more pertinent reason? This is my home. It is here I would have lived with Marian, my wife. Yet, here I am, about to sully it with my sordid desires.

And I am. I have to. Either that or lock myself in the castle dungeons and throw away the key.

It doesn't take me long to determine we have the place to ourselves.

I'm halfway down the stairs. My heart's still too loud. My throat's dry. Someone is knocking on the damn door.

Guy grunts and snatches his sword from the tabletop.

I guess it is the gang.

_Don't forget to knock._

They might at least have given us the grace of our first night alone together.

The knock sounds again, louder this time.

I shake my head at Guy – no trouble.

I don't recognise the girl, but the little bunch of dried lavender she clutches in her hand has me guessing she is one of Nessa's elder daughters.

"Yes?"

"Beg pardon, my lord," the girl curtseys, awkwardly. "But my mother sent me here to see if you still need my services."

"Your services?"

"Hardly," Guy mutters.

"Oh, sorry," she flushes. "Only I helped that kind lady Rowena, when she was here, and my mother thought as maybe you'd like me to carry on with the linen and larder and such—"

She is not looking at me.

I flick my head around, catch Guy glowering at her.

"That's very kind of your mother to think of us, but—"

_Us. God, what am I doing? We're an 'us' now, are we?_

She studies the floor, quickly buries the bunch of lavender in her skirts.

"Did she pay you?" I ask.

"Just food and a few coins when she could."

"Of course."

"Look," Guy hisses, "we don't need—"

"Here." I yank the small money pouch from my belt and press some coins into her free hand. "Sir Guy and I have matters to discuss, important matters, but I'll send for you when I need you."

"Thank you, my lord," she smiles.

She is pretty. Her wheat-coloured hair falls over her face as she gives another small bob. She turns to leave, remembers the lavender, spins round and quickly thrusts it into my hand. The dried stalks stick to my clammy palms.

I watch her walk away, the sway of her hips. I watch until she disappears. I didn't even ask her her name.

"Important matters," Guy scoffs.

I shut the door and turn to face him.

He is smiling, but he is dark. I am ready now. Ready for the darkness.

He comes at me fast, rams me up against the door, and takes possession of my mouth. I let go the dried herbs, hear the crunch of them under his heavy boots. The smoky-sweet scent of lavender mixes with his warm breath in my mouth. He tastes of heat, and leather, and male. I want him. I want his hot, hungry kisses. I want those slender yet powerful hands, which could so easily break my neck, touch every part of me.

"Robin," Guy breathes.

"Here." I grab hold of his wrist.

"Wait! I need you to—"

He fumbles with his belt.

A heavy rap on the door startles me into his chest.

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Guy exclaims, yanking me away from the door, all but throwing me off my feet.

The door makes a resounding smack as it hits the wall.

Luke Scarlett stands outside, his mouth a surprised 'o' as Guy shoves his face at him.

"What do you want?" Guy snarls.

My almost-lover is at the end of his tether.

"Guy," I warn.

"Robin?" Luke's brow creases. "Are you all right?"

Guy mutters something offensive.

"I'm fine. What is it? Has something happened to Rowena?"

"No, nothing's happened. She asked me to fetch her things."

"Her things?"

"Yes. She left some stuff here, clothes and things. She asked me to fetch them for her."

"Oh."

I step back, beckoning Luke inside.

Luke peers past me, shakes his head. I don't need to turn around to understand why.

"Wait here," I tell him. "I'll go fetch them."

I shoot Guy another warning look and make my way to the kitchen. I remember a pitcher of wine I had seen on my earlier inspection of the house, figure it might keep Guy from throttling Luke, and possibly me.

I'm breathing ridiculously fast, am all fingers and thumbs. This is not turning out the way I thought it would.

"Here!" I bang both the pitcher and a large wooden mug on the tabletop. Empty tableware jumps.

"What's that for?" Guy asks.

"What do you think!"

He snatches up the mug and I half-duck, expecting it to come my way, along with the full-to-brimming jug. Instead, he carelessly grabs the jug, pours too fast and spills the wine. A viscous, red pool snakes towards the edge of the table.

"To us," he says.

I snap my head up in time to see Guy raising the tankard in mock salute. He brushes past me, deliberately slides long, slim fingers teasingly across my shirtfront.

He leans in, tells me, "Get rid of him," his breath hot in my ear.

"I won't be long," I mouth, daring to return the touch and not caring what Luke might make of it.

I won't be denied this – not now.

My bedchamber, or what's left of it.

No one has been in here. Everything is as on that day. Bits of broken jug on the floor. The smashed table. And the heavy blanket, rumpled at the bed's end – a stark reminder of my indecent yearning for the man downstairs, evidence of which I would doubtless find should I care to give the sheet closer inspection.

_Damn, Luke Scarlett._

I find Rowena's clothing in the trunk under the window and quickly gather it into a bundle. I think I've found everything. But I'm not paying attention and trip on something – that stupid table. I have to pick the clothes up. Everything's going wrong. It's a wonder I don't fall down the stairs.

Luke is standing in the doorway, warily eyeing Guy. Guy is drinking and doesn't care.

They both look up as I thud down the stairs.

"Here."

I thrust the bundle of clothes into Luke's hands and slam the door on him.

Guy is amused. He is also dangerous.

Wine is dripping over the table edge, pooling on the floor. It looks like blood, smells like a memory - my three days in a stifling room in Acre, drunk and dirty and out of my head with grief.

I need to push Acre away if I am to do this. I stride towards Guy and grab the mug from his hand, briefly torture myself by taking several great mouthfuls. Desperate to resume our kissing fest, I can't swallow fast enough.

Guy tears the mug from my hand and flings it over his shoulder. An arc of red wine splatters across the tabletop.

"Robin," he exhales.

My name – that's all it takes.

He grabs my upper arms, yanks me into his chest. I can feel the hard metal clasps running the length of his doublet digging through my worn linen shirt. My hands clutch the back of his head. My lips clamp his mouth.

We are tongues and longing.

We are alone.

We are unstoppable.

"Now," Guy growls.

He whips me round, drives me backwards, and slams me against the hard edge of the table.

Something – an empty vase, I think – smashes.

Wine and lust coat my tongue. I can taste my own darkness spilling into his. I like it. I like the wantonness of it and the fact that there are no boundaries, no codes of conduct to follow, just him and me and all this pent up desire and longing, about to come to fruition.

He tugs my shirt from my belt, slides a warm hand across my chest.

"You want this?" he asks.

"You know I do."

"Then say it."

"What?"

"Let me hear you say it."

His questing hand slips past my navel, pushes into my breeches – stops.

"I want you," I say.

"More than that."

He whips his hand away. He is playing with me and I am too hungry for it not to give in to his demands.

"Touch me, Guy. I can't—I need—"

_Spit it out, Robin._

"Fuck me, for God's sake!"

"Now," he purrs, "ask me nicely."

I really want those hands.

"Please."

"Better."

"Bastard."

Grinning, Guy starts unbuckling my belt.

He has me and he knows it. What's more, he knows I know it. I don't care. Because for the first time in our turbulent relationship I am more than willing to surrender to Guy of Gisborne.

**to be continued...**


	3. Perchance to Dream

**Perchance to Dream**

"Hell, Locksley!"

Guy snaps his hands out of my breeches with such vehemence I think I must be doing something wrong.

No, it isn't me. Someone is at the door – again!

"Ignore it," Guy hisses, grasping my upper arms, restraining me.

"I can't. I—"

"I said, ignore it!"

His grip tightens, reminding me how powerful he is and how thin and weak I have become. He's forgotten about my injury, the one that nearly cost me my arm. I'm going to have some serious bruises come the morning.

The knock sounds again, louder this time.

"God almighty!" Guy exclaims. "We might as well be living in a bloody tavern, for all the good this is doing us!"

He shoves me backwards, as though this is entirely my fault. My lower back smacks into the hard edge of the table. I gasp, swear at the table for being there, although really it's because I know Guy is right. What on earth made me think coming to Locksley was a good idea?

"Whoever's behind that door is dead," he snarls.

He is edging nearer to the old Guy. This is not good. Not for me, and not for whoever is behind that door.

"Don't," I warn.

"Give me one good reason not to!"

I can't. Because I could quite happily hit someone right now. My much-anticipated night of lust is turning into a complete fiasco. I'm half expecting to find the butcher, the baker, and whomever it is who makes candles, to be standing outside the door.

"Master, Robin, are you there?"

No, none of those. A woman. One of my peasants.

"What is it?" I call.

"Please. Please come quickly."

I struggle with my belt-buckle, can't seem to find the right hole, something I will have to remedy if we're going to continue getting these blasted interruptions. Belt done, or as good as, I scoop up my bow where it rests alongside Guy's sword, annoyed when the two snag together. With a swift kick, I send Guy's blade skittering across the floor, out of harm's way. Guy lets loose an angry snarl and lunges for the door, but I am quicker. I fling open the door, praying that Guy has done a better job of re-arranging himself than me.

"What is it?" I ask.

The woman is familiar; I have seen her somewhere before.

"My boy," she says, flicking her eyes at Guy and giving me baffled look.

I remember. She is one of the women I saw hanging washing. Her hair is very long, beyond her waist.

"Your boy?" I prompt.

"Oh, yes," she says, shaking her head, confused. She waves a hand in the direction of the village. "He's on the roof and he won't come down. Says he's going to jump. Says he'll…oh, you will come, won't you, Master Robin."

Guy sidles up behind me, plants a flat hand on my backside. "Yes, _please come_, Master Robin," he breathes into my neck.

"Tell me," I say, trying to concentrate on the woman and failing miserably. I swear he makes my neck hairs curl. How many times had he tried using that undeniably sexy growl on Marian, and how on earth did it fail to work? Very deliberately – more to get him to back off than anything – I grind a heel into his booted foot.

"No," she says. "You have to come with me."

With a sweep of skirts, she turns, trusting me to follow.

"Let someone else sort out their snivelling problems for once," Guy says, jerking his foot from under mine and thrusting a hand between my legs.

I whirl around; grab his wrists. "Don't!"

"Aww, is Robin Hood all hot and bothered."

"I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do. Everything is a choice."

"Not when you're Robin Hood, it isn't."

I slam the door behind me, not even bothering to check whether Guy is coming through it or not.

* * *

The young woman is already some way ahead of me and I run to catch up.

You were wrong, Marian. And so is he. Everything is not a choice. Life is chaos, random. All I can do is make things happen – or not.

I pass the pond, the mill, pound up the incline, towards the church.

The church. The house of God. I'll never be able to set foot in there again. Not if I do this thing. Not even if I don't. The villagers will wonder, of course, why the Lord of the Manor has renounced his God. They will think it is because that same God deserted me in the Holy Land and let my wife die. But sooner or later they will find out it was Guy who killed her. And the whispered conversations, speculating why I let him into my home, will give them more than the weather, the crops or their children to talk about as they gather around the winter fire. And one day, and probably quite soon, someone, someone like Nessa, will ask. And I will lie, and I will keep on lying – to keep our secret.

_It's a sin, Robin._

Yes, John, it's a sin, or soon will be, if we're ever allowed to have our wicked way with each other.

I reach the church.

Marry a nice girl, Robin. There must be someone out there. Rowena? No, too smart and she knows. Someone else then. Anyone. Marry the girl, start a family and forget him. It sounds simple – except for one little detail. I can't. I want him. It's the first time I've wanted anything this badly since that fateful day when Marian lay impaled and dying upon the hot sand. When I prayed that Djaq would perform a miracle and save her. And no amount of running, or fear of what might befall us should we be found out, is going to stop me from getting what I want – not this time.

I glance behind me; Guy is not following.

Guy.

His wine-tainted breath chases my own breaths as I run. Under my clothes, my skin still thrills to his absent touch. There's an unmistakable dampness in my breeches that I'd have a hard time explaining to my mother, if I had one. I imagine him naked and me touching him. The two of us, entangled, on the floor, the bed, somewhere. Flesh touching flesh. The brush of his cock against my own. Me on him. Him on me.

Inside the church, the confessional awaits. But it's too late – way, way too late.

I speed past the church and spot the woman in the distance.

She is standing outside a small cottage. On the thatch stands a boy. He is holding what looks like a miniature version of my Saracen bow in one hand. He is crying.

"Look, Joseph," his mother calls. "I fetched Robin Hood, like I said I would."

"Joseph?"

I move nearer to the cottage, trying to work out how he had made it to the roof.

"There's a trellis round the back," his mother explains.

"So he can get down again?"

"I don't know. He's never been up there before."

"Why is he—"

"They were making fun of him, the other lads."

"Because?"

"Because the carpenter's son made him that bow, and because he can't fire it to save his life. Joseph done told them that Robin Hood had promised to teach him and—"

She averts her gaze, stares guiltily at the ground.

"And you said I would?"

"Yes. I'm sorry. Only I thought—"

"It's all right. I'll be happy to teach him."

It's true. I haven't quite forgotten how it feels to show off, even if it's only to a small child.

The woman smiles and so do the handful of villagers who have come to see what the commotion is about. They look as if they expect me to leap from the spot where I stand, fly to the roof and rescue the boy. Because I am Robin Hood and I can perform miracles. Already they have forgiven the hurts that have befallen them because of who I am. The atrocities Sheriff Vaisey committed because I moved among them. I am the embodiment of hope when all hope is lost – even though I have all but lost my own.

It feels good, right. It feels like what I'm supposed to be. Without them, I am nothing. With them I will be remembered – live beyond my death.

But with him, I can live now.

I don't know what will happen when my two worlds collide. I only know that I don't want one without the other.

The boy believes every word I say and lets me climb up and help him down. The villagers applaud. Ridiculous. I didn't do anything special. But they are happy. Robin Hood is back, with his people. He can perform miracles.

I remonstrate with the boys who taunted Joseph. I go easy on them; I've done worse.

* * *

On my way back to the house I think maybe Guy will be gone. Either that, or be one step away from knocking my block off.

He is neither.

He is on the floor, asleep, sprawled in front of a non-existent fire, the empty wine pitcher beside him. I want to shake the hell out of him but decide against it. I think he is more likely to fight me than fuck me. I don't want to fight – not now. I'm too damn tired. Everything – her death, the journey home, and this new and frightening thing – has worn me to the point of exhaustion. I need to sleep.

I light a candle and check the window shutters are firmly latched. It is long past suppertime. The gang will have eaten. I think of them, sitting round the campfire, without me, and me here, desperate to be dirty with Guy. If only I had known Marian's death would lead to this. If only I could have seen into the future. If only—

I hate those two little words. And I hate him, for being asleep.

I lock the front door, unlock it and step outside; try to cheer myself with the thought of being among my people. The village is quiet, hunkering down for the night. My gang will not come tonight. I'm not sure if I'm happy about this or not. I know I should be. It's what I wanted after all, just him and me, on our own, and preferably all over each other.

Instead, he is drunk and asleep, and I am tired and hungry. Some start.

I shiver, step back inside, close the door and turn the lock.

I think of all the stories, behind closed doors. Mothers tucking their sons and daughters in bed, singing lullabies, fathers whispering soft goodnights, young lovers amazed by each other – so many stories. I look at Guy, wonder if our own story will ever begin.

I do not like to think how it will end.

Guy is snoring, softly, his face made innocent by sleep. He looks young, boyish almost, except for the hair and the two days growth of beard. What does he dream about, I wonder. He doesn't look so powerful down there, on the floor. I notice his belt is undone and smile. If I wasn't so damn tired, I might do something about that. He jerks in his sleep and his boot strikes the empty pitcher. I hold my breath, but he doesn't wake up.

Disconsolately, I wander to the kitchens, find some stale bread and a hunk of disgustingly dry meat and cram them into my mouth, picturing my protruding ribs.

I want a drink – wine, ale, anything – I don't care. I think I might shake Guy awake after all, for denying me the drink, for denying me the fuck. If he fights me, I'll let him. I play with the idea of us all bloodied on the floor and how we will make up.

I'm at the point of giving up, when I find it - a dusty cask, full of ale. I'm not stupid. I won't drink it all. Just enough. Enough to numb things a bit, take the edge off that messy ball of anger, fear, sadness and regret that roils in my gut.

The ale is bitter. It burns my throat, spits forth a memory. The barn in Etienne: soft autumn rain, a towering hay bale, me falling, crashing into Guy, a drunken conversation.

_What's the matter, Locksley? Frightened I might jump you in the night?_

Had he been making a pass at me – even then?

Another swig, another memory.

_Don't you think the good Sheriff would turn in his grave? I mean, the infamous Robin Hood and Vaisey's Master at Arms, sleeping side by side?_

I grimace, toss more ale down my throat.

The drink and thoughts of the despotic Sheriff Vaisey are enough to rid me of my damnable longings. With a final glance at Guy, I concede the fact that I'm not going to get my heart's desire tonight.

* * *

I stand in the door-less doorway and stare at my bed. I wanted to sleep in it with Marian, but she is dead. I want to sleep in it with Guy, but I think he has given up on me. My eyes flick to the small dressing room, where I had my way with Rowena. I'm half–tempted to see if his clothes are still in a heap on the floor. I imagine myself burying my head into them and assuaging my despicable want. But no – nothing less than the real thing will do tonight.

I walk to the bed, curse as I trip on something – that stupid table again. Perhaps I have drunk too much after all. I perch on the edge of the mattress, bend down, and pull off my boots. My lower back still hurts following the collision with the table downstairs. It seems tables and I are in competition at the moment and so far the tables are definitely winning.

Easing back onto the bed, I stare at the ceiling, wait for the oblivion of sleep. And wait. And wait. I try reciting French, rattling off poetry, even counting bloody tables. It's not going to happen. I think perhaps I'm going about it arse-backwards. Since when did I need to sleep fully clothed in my own home? Admittedly, I was always partially dressed in the camp, but that was different. We had had to be ready to spring into action at any given moment. But surely not here, in my own bed? If anything, I'm more likely to be hurt by my would-be lover than any outside force.

I strip to my braies, defiantly shed them too. This is my home and I can do what I like. It's cold and I feel stupid. I tug the heavy blanket to my chin and wait for Guy to come up.

When he doesn't, it's almost a relief.

**to be continued...**


	4. Night Moves

**Night Moves**

I know it's him, mostly because he swears as he trips over something; probably the same bit of table I tripped over. Good. Serve him right for mucking up our first night by getting drunk.

Unmoving, I listen to the thud, thud of his boots hitting the floor and the creak of a floorboard on the far side of the room, near the washstand, followed by another robust curse. I don't know what's going to happen, or even what I want to happen, but whatever it is, it at least demands that I open my eyes.

Dawn. No, not dawn, but the feeble glow of the candle I lit earlier. Damn. After all that reciting and table counting, I'd finally fallen asleep, and the stupid bastard has woken me up.

I blink, and wake up a bit more.

My head is hurting. There's a cramp in my right leg. I am naked. These are small things, inconsequential. What is not, is Guy of Gisborne, moving about my bedchamber, and presumably about to get into bed with me.

"I know you're awake, Robin."

I bend and unbend my aching leg, glad to give up the pretence.

Water sloshes as Guy dips his hands into the washbowl, and smacks them to his face. I'm tempted to turn over and watch him, but change my mind. I don't care that the earlier interruptions were not his fault, nor that I'm as much to blame as anyone for the drink - I gave it to him after all – I'm not letting him in.

"There's no creeping up on you, is there, Locksley."

I guess by the scrapes and bumps that he's looking for something, a towel perhaps.

"You call that creeping."

Guy laughs, a gravelly, abandoned laugh, similar to the one he had up on the hillside, as we stood contemplating Locksley. My fingers twitch at the thought of his warm hand in mine, and where that handholding had been bound.

All right, so I am letting him in.

I listen as he peels off his leathers, catch the clink of a buckle, or at least something metallic, hitting the floor, followed by another clink, and then another. I realise it's his weaponry. Hell, how many blades does the man wear? I can just see him now, in the shadowy corners of Nottingham's less than desirable haunts, counting them out and then counting them in again, the obliging female picking idly at her nails and muttering under her breath. But knowing that Guy is still armed to the teeth is a sobering moment and a stark reminder of who he is and what he's about. It's also a smack in the face that I should not be contemplating indulging in indecent acts with a man who will callously cut down another man without a second thought.

Relinquishing my grip on the blanket, I start to turn over, cursing my nakedness and the fact that my weapons are out of reach.

"No," he says. "Stay where you are."

"Not getting all coy on me, are you, Guy?"

"Just do it."

"What, so you can stab me in the back?"

"You should be so lucky."

There it is again, that warmly humorous side to him, the side I'm just beginning to know. I relax back onto the sheet, all thoughts of fending off Guy guiltily pushed aside.

Done with washing and undressing, Guy pads across to the bed. A waft of chill night air curls about my exposed skin as he lifts the heavy blanket and slips in beside me. He moves closer, but not so close that we are touching.

"Just one thing," he says. "I don't care who knocks on the door, even if it's the King of bloody England. You are _not_ going to answer it."

I know it's childish, but I have half a mind to climb out my side of the bed. Guy does something with the pillow, shuffles, and a cool foot brushes against mine. I change my mind. Not only because of the quiver of excitement I get when it finally dawns on me that Guy and me are about do unspeakable things to each other, but also because of everything else. I've lost Marian. I may well have lost my gang. My self-respect is in tatters. And a heart that's still in pieces can hardly be broken. It seems to me that I've got nothing else to lose.

"Robin?"

It's just a foot, for God's sake. How can a bloody foot arouse me? But it's not just a foot – it's his foot. And it's attached to his shin, and his knee, and his thigh and – damn if I can't stop going.

"Nothing. I'm all right."

Guy's weight means I inadvertently – _liar_ – slip towards the middle of the bed. The bed he's slept in. The bed I've slept in. Who'd have thought that one day we'd both be in it at the same time? Yet, here we are, a hair's-breadth from each other.

"That's good," he says, "because I want you. I've wanted you for a long time."

I'm tempted to say 'more than that', as he did to me, but then his other cold foot pushes its way between both my warmer ones and the moment passes.

"Guy, I—"

"Wait."

He places a firm hand to my middle back, and presses a surprisingly warm, and decidedly naked body, into mine.

It's strange, this other maleness, in my bed. Do I smell that way? I suppose I must – worse probably. I've already noticed how fastidious Guy is with his personal cleanliness and appearance. I try to remember other men I've lain this close to. Much, of course, on the boat. But I'd been too consumed by grief to pay more than scant acknowledgement to his maleness. And I've slept shoulder to shoulder with men in tents, in the Holy Land. Men who smelt of more than their own skin. Men flecked by bloody reminders of battle. Men tainted by the fear that leaked into their clothing.

Even stripped of his clothes, Guy smells of leather. I find this comforting, though I can't think why.

"I used to imagine," he says, drawing small circles on my back, "touching her, being with her in this bed, and now look at me – in the breeches of her husband. What do you think that says about me, Robin?"

"What does it say about us, don't you mean?"

Guy slides an arm over my ribs, and his fingers curl around the hand I have resting on the sheet in front of me. He fiddles with my ring – the ring he gave me, and which I've taken to wearing these past couple of days.

"I think it says we've been without for too long, Robin."

"Speak for yourself."

His hand tenses.

"Sorry," I mutter, not quite sure what I'm apologising for.

"It's all right. I forget what a ladies' man you were."

Were. Past tense. I swallow down the regret.

"Have you done this before, with a man I mean?"

I want to know where I stand with him before we do whatever we are about to do.

"Yes…a long time ago. It was...it was not...of my choosing."

"Oh?"

No answer. I gain the distinct feeling he doesn't want to talk about it.

I try again. "And am I…of your choosing?"

"Most definitely."

He lets go the ring, and strokes my open palm with the soft pads of his fingers.

"What about you, Robin?"

"No. Never."

"Then we'll take it one step at a time."

"I'm a quick learner."

"I'm sure you are. Even so, there's no point in mucking it up from the start. Believe me, certain things take some getting used to."

He lets go my hand, and trails his fingers down my chest.

I am going to do this. I made this choice all those weeks ago. This was my plan – Robin Hood by day, Robin by night. Infallible. I have it all worked out.

Continuing their downward quest, his fingers slip into my groin.

"Is this all right?" he murmurs.

I've done this myself, shamefully, more times than I care to remember. And I've had it done to me. By small and delicate female hands – pale pink to dusky brown, and back again. Beginning with those first inexperienced fumblings in the garret of Locksley's barn, to the last time, by a blushing and surprisingly shy Marian.

"Most definitely," I reply.

He thrusts one heavy leg in between my knees and drapes the other over my uppermost thigh. I like feeling the weight of him, pinning me to the bed. I'm hoping that soon I'll have the whole of him on top of me, even if it is likely to hurt. I want him to do things to me, things I don't know, things I shouldn't be thinking about, but am.

His free hand runs through my hair, strokes the back of my neck, traces down my spine. I don't understand. I expected him to be rough, vicious. Where has the taunting, brusque, angry Guy gone? Tempered by the wine perhaps? By a few hours sleep. Or by this – by us. It's unexpected, this tenderness, this giving.

It's a sin, Robin, that's what John said. But the gang won't hurt me, even if I have misjudged their easy acceptance of my downward slide into sodomy. I am Robin Hood, their leader. The villagers and townsfolk, however, are another matter. They will have me for this; will tear me limb from limb if they catch us. I know I should care, but I don't. I'm beyond caring, beyond everything but the touch of his fingers on my increasingly demanding flesh.

My choice. No choice. I can no more leave this bed now, than I could ignore a plea for help.

I'm too hot under the blanket and push it away. I'm still hot. The heat is inside me – rising, intensifying. But I'm not ready to capitulate, not yet. After all the days and weeks of imagining this moment, I'm damned if it's going to be over in a trice.

"Here."

I wrap my ringed hand over his – take a chance. He could break my neck. I wait for the show of anger or resentment. Instead, he mumbles an apology, and I settle back against his warm chest.

"Like this?" he asks.

"Yes, exactly like that."

I slide a hand under me, and am surprised when he jerks away.

"No, just you," he insists.

"Why?"

"Because I want to hear you, that's why."

I don't understand. Is this some kind of macabre revenge, because of Marian? Robin Hood at his mercy. Robin Hood giving in. Robin Hood spilling his lust, instead of his guts, over his long time adversary.

"All right, but this way."

I turn over, kiss him, and instantly regret it as his beautiful hand lets go. Reminding myself that I wanted this night to count, to mean something more than what it really is, I wrap my arms around him. We kiss again. For ages. Tasting each other. Tiny, almost hesitant kisses, where he gently bites my top lip, where my tongue edges into his mouth. And then it changes. Our kisses become deeper. Like the first time we kissed, in the forest – urgent and fierce.

I guide his hand back to where I want it most.

"All right?" he whispers.

It's going to happen. It's really going to happen. I'm about to step over the cliff edge and plunge into the dark pit of immorality, and the best I can hope for is that when I hit the bottom it is a fathomless pool of water I find rather than unforgiving rocks.

"Come on, Robin," Guy urges.

I can't believe it's me writhing and moaning. And I can no more stop myself than I can hold back the tide. He's doing this to me – Guy of Gisborne. Making me hot, hard and hungry.

It's going to happen and it's going to happen here. Not lying atop the leaves and debris of the forest floor, but here, in my bed, in Locksley.

_Forgiveness in the extreme. _

_She will never forgive me this._

"Marian."

I thought her name would end it, that he would break away at my betrayal.

Instead, he says, "She's here, remember."

God, I love him for that.

"Let me hear you," Guy insists.

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can."

_Let go. _

_Let her go._

He eases me away from him, the small gap between us allowing his hand to work harder, faster, sure and knowing.

Moments gather: Acre, hate, pain, a hold full of seawater, a shadowy alley, and a heady kiss in Sherwood Forest. Moments he and I shared.

Marian, the gang, the forest – everything disappears – as circles and circles of unadulterated pleasure ripple through me. Lust gathers, rushes. I cry out, although whether in ecstasy, relief or a concession to defeat, I do not know. Perhaps all three.

It has happened. There is no going back. I will never be the same again.

Patiently, Guy waits for me to still, finally grunts, "God, you're a hard man to please."

Awash with gratitude, I ply him with kisses, over and over. He smiles beneath my lips, and I can't help grinning. I should not be this happy, not about lying with a man. But I am.

I open my eyes in time to see Guy swipe his hand across his stomach and lick his fingers.

"Got you," he says, grinning hugely.

I stare into his eyes, dark and desirous, and curl my fingers around his hard, erect flesh.

"Like this?" I say.

He moans, concentrates. Moans again.

I smile, know he will not last long.

"Let me hear you," I say.

"I don't think—"

He makes a noise, halfway between whimper and a growl.

I wriggle closer. I want to feel his warm, liquid-splash on my skin.

"Yes, you do," I whisper, nuzzling into his long hair.

Guy groans, shudders and lets go.

"Got you back," I say.

**to be continued...**


	5. Come the Dawn

**Come the Dawn**

Two things strike me on waking.

One. I slept soundly.

Two. I slept with Guy of Gisborne.

He is lying beside me now, asleep, his warm arm weighing upon my bare chest, and his long, dark hair tickling my armpit.

I am both dismayed and elated. Dismayed, because by rights it should have been Marian. Elated, because after weeks of wanting him, it has finally happened.

_Got you._

Damn right he has.

Apart from where his warm skin touches mine, the upper half of me is chilled to the bone. Flicking my eyes downwards, I discover the heavy blanket bunched at our hips. I half wonder about pulling it over our heads; blocking out the strip of harsh winter sunlight spilling through the broken shutter, and creating a dark cave, where we can forget the men we are, where we can indulge in the sinful depravity that we have chosen for ourselves. But a sudden clamorous chattering of sparrows in a nearby oak quickly snuffs out my unbidden twitch of lust, along with my shameless anticipation of what we might do to each other. The world is waking up, and it is time for me to face the light of day – face what I have done.

Breath indrawn, I peer at Guy, and consider whether I can wriggle out from under his sleep-heavy arm without waking him. Carefully, I curl my fingers around his limp wrist, curse that I should find such a nondescript part of his anatomy so ridiculously arousing.

Guy sighs, rolls onto his back, and opens his eyes.

I push up onto my elbows and wait for him to surface. He blinks and turns dark, sleep-filled eyes at me. He shakes his head, blinks again. I think he is as surprised as I was to find us together in this warm bed.

"Morning," Guy says. A self-satisfied smile plays on his lips. He looks like the cat who got the cream, or in this case – me.

"Morning."

I can't think what else to say.

Guy shuffles up the bed, leans against the wooden headboard, and squints at the rectangle of sharp sunlight.

"We slept in," he remarks.

Pushing the heavy blanket away, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads towards the window, stepping over discarded clothes and weapons as he does so.

"Wait," I say. "Leave it be."

Guy pauses, his hand resting on the shutter's latch.

"What?"

He swivels around, gives me a questioning look.

"I said, leave it be."

"No one can see us up here, Robin. Not unless one of your gang decides to shimmy up the wall and climb in through the window. Though I guess that's always possible. You people are not ones for using doors, are you?"

"Just leave it."

How can I explain? If he opens the shutters I will be able to see my village, and if I see my village I will remember who I am, who they want me to be, and just for a short while, I would like to forget.

Guy shrugs. "All right." He picks his way back towards the bed.

It's the first time I've seen him, the whole of him, naked.

He catches me staring, grins, and sits beside me.

"Not quite what you're used to waking up to, eh?"

The bloody man is annoyingly at ease. Determinedly, I make myself look. This was my choice, after all. If I cannot face it in the cold light of day, then I'd better start coming up with some damn good excuses.

Guy patiently tolerates my embarrassed scrutiny, smiling all the while.

He's all muscle, finer haired than I thought he would be, and proof, if ever proof were needed, that in my present ill-nourished state, he could eat me for breakfast.

"You need to eat more," he says.

"I know."

The slant of bright sunlight streaming through the broken shutter splits the bed in half. On either side of it we sit. In between us, along with the dust motes, sits our history: our families, King Richard, the war, Vaisey, all of Guy's crimes – and mine – Marian. Big stuff, scary stuff – stuff we need to talk about. But I don't want to talk about any of it. Instead, I want to ask him inconsequential things. Like, why does he wear black all the time? Which side of the bed did he sleep on when he lived here? Did he ever wear a full beard? Stupid questions, that won't hurt us.

"What are you thinking?" Guy asks.

I look up and meet his eyes. They're very blue, quite arresting in fact. I hadn't noticed before.

"What?"

"What are you thinking?"

"What, right now?"

"Yes."

"I'm thinking…I'm thinking how I'm glad she missed this."

"What. Us. This?" Guy indicates our joint nakedness.

I shake my head.

"No. I said that wrongly. I mean, I'm glad she missed you, being with you, in this way."

"Because?"

"Because if she hadn't, she might never have agreed to marry me."

Guy considers.

"You believe she was that weak?"

I think perhaps he understands – _understood_ – Marian better than me. It is not a pleasant thought.

"No. You're right."

"However." Guy points at my lap, grinning. "I think perhaps you are."

I glance down, shrug, and concede his point.

He leans forward, kisses me. I don't resist. His head slides downwards, his nose grazing my chin and neck. He runs his tongue through my chest hairs, keeps going.

"What are you—"

"Shush," Guy says, shimmying backwards.

Grasping both my shins, he drags me onto my back. His tongue finds me again, traces past my navel, slides wetly into my groin.

"Guy, I—"

It unravels me, the thought of him taking me in his mouth.

Unsure what to do with my hands, I bury them in his thick hair. Guy makes a noise in the back of his throat, a deep groan. He scoops his arms under my legs, forcing them further apart. His breaths are warm on my thigh. He very slowly begins.

I gasp, and clutch his hair tighter.

Guy raises his head, smiles, and says, "Just lie back and think of England, Robin."

Returning mouth, tongue, and now fingers, to my groin, he begins to kiss, and lick, and stroke, until the pressure building beneath my ball-sack is almost unbearable. I'm lost. A heartbeat. One more. A lusty cry as I erupt in a succession of gasping shudders.

Guy does not wait this time. He spits, laughs gruffly, and lands heavily on my rib cage. His mouth meets mine, sharing the taste of me. This is what I want, have dreamt about, the weight of him on me, and the hard stab of his erection digging into my flesh.

A thought. I will be damned for eternity. Quickly erased by another, more immediate, thought. Am I expected to return the favour?

Guy rolls us over. Hands planted firmly on my crown, he pushes me down, insistent, answering my question.

England, and eternal damnation, will have to wait a bit longer.

* * *

"Can I open the shutter now?" Guy asks, tossing me a piece of cloth.

I deftly catch the cloth and nod. I still can't get over what we've just done.

Wiping myself, I shiver as a cold blast of air invades the room. The sky is violet-grey. It looks like snow.

I want Guy to get back into bed. I want to pull the thick blanket over our heads and wrap my arms around him. Not sex, just be. Just stay warm and close.

Guy rubs his upper arms, briskly, and bends down to pick up his clothes, tucking a strand of dark hair behind his ear as he does so.

He straightens up, gives me a puzzled look. "What? What is it?"

"Nothing."

_She'll never forgive me this._

"Robin? Are you all right?"

I'm not sure. I think I might be happy. But I shouldn't be. I feel like I have committed the worse kind of betrayal. I gave her a ring, as she lay dying. We spoke our vows of marriage – made promises. Now I am sitting in my bed, in Locksley, naked, staring at an equally naked Guy. And I am wearing his ring.

Guy kneels by the bed, laces our fingers together. I notice I have worked the ring to the end of my finger.

"She was my wife."

"I know," he says.

"I still miss her."

"I know that too. I'm not asking you to forget."

I had not expected this kindness, this understanding, from him. This thing has changed us more than I thought possible.

I slide the ring back into place.

Guy gives me a moment, pretends to look for something.

"I'm sorry," I say. I don't want our first morning together to be spoiled by the past, although I guess it will always be there, no matter what I say or do.

As if to breathe life into the thought, Guy runs a finger over the whitened ridges of my scar – the one he gave me when he attacked the King dressed as a Saracen.

"I nearly killed you, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

"I'm sorry."

I don't hate him for it any more. I can't. I can't even blame him. Because ever since this thing with him began, something has shifted inside me. It is a growing resentment, and it is directed at King Richard. Were it not for him, Guy would not have stabbed me. Were it not for him, Marian would not have died in Acre. I can't hate Guy any more. I can't. But King Richard. My disloyalty rests uneasily in my gut. I should not be thinking this way. He is my King. I am one of his men. I swore an oath of loyalty.

I stare at the ugly scar on Guy's lower arm, all that is left of that damning tattoo.

"I'm sorry too," I say.

He cocks his head at me, unsure whether I am apologising for the burn, or for the fact that I failed to present the proof of his treason to those who would listen.

"You were right," I clarify. "We should not have been there."

His gaze moves to the other scar running the length of my right arm. A reminder of how close to death I came during the voyage home, and a reminder of his saving me.

It seems we cannot hide the marks on us – inside or out.

"So tell me," I say, lacing my breeches. "Who was it that you—"

Guy whips up his head, and I realise I have strayed into dangerous territory.

"I really don't want to talk about it, if you don't mind."

"Fair enough. I was just curious."

I have a niggling suspicion that it might have been the dead sheriff.

"We all have our secrets, Robin," Guy relents. "Even with this." He indicates the bed.

"Of course."

"Marian's was the Night Watchman," he says. "And I was all right with it, after the initial shock, of course. I could even admire her for it. It was the lies and the half truths that drove me to distraction."

"If it's any consolation, she was the same with me."

Guy smiles, grateful for this unexpected gift.

"How fickle is woman, eh, Robin?"

It is a precarious moment – inquiring about a part of his past he evidently wants to forget. But the damage is repaired by our mutual love for Marian.

"Robin!"

"Master, are you there?"

Damn. The gang. I had forgotten about them.

Giving Guy an apologetic look, I finish buckling my belt and sling my tag around my neck.

"They are my friends, Guy."

"I know. I didn't say anything."

"Just give me a few moments."

"Fine. I'll wait here."

"Robin!"

"Guy, listen I—"

He grunts, and waves me away.

There are seventeen stairs leading down to the main hall, a further twelve paces to reach the front door. But there could just as well be a thousand, and still it will not give me enough time to prepare what I might say to them.

Just be me, just be me, I inwardly chant, with every footfall.

The trouble is, I'm not sure who me is anymore.

**to be continued...**


	6. Home Truths

**Home Truths**

Just be me. One stair. Just be me. Two stairs. Seventeen times I say it. I'm an idiot.

Twelve paces to the front door. Three, and I can make out Much and Allan's voices. Six, and I can hear them bickering. I smile. Feel better. It's good to know some things never change.

_They are my friends, Guy._

I pause at the door, listen.

"Should we knock again?"

"You heard him, Much. He'll be here when he's here."

"Only, this sack is heavy."

"Then put it down, you dolt."

"I still don't see why we couldn't eat first."

"Blimey, Much. You and your stomach. Some things are more important than food."

"Not if you don't want to die of starvation, they're not."

"You. Starve. Don't make me laugh."

My hand hovers over the latch, although how I can be nervous of facing my gang after my audacious act of kissing Guy right in front of their noses, I don't know. Perhaps it's because the deed is done. Or perhaps it's because I've moved so far beyond the life I had that I feel like a stranger to them. Whatever the reason, it's obvious I won't be able to work it out until I open the damn door.

Much almost falls into the hall. I grin, wonder how long he had his ear pressed against the thick timber.

Allan grabs his shirt, steadies him. "Idiot."

"Much," I say.

"Robin."

Much stares, tongue-tied. I stare back, equally lost for words.

Allan pokes Much's arm.

"Oh, right," Much says. He waggles his head, as though to dislodge some unpleasant thought, and thrusts the sack he is holding into my arms.

"This is yours," he says, quietly.

"What?"

"Your things."

I peer over Much's shoulder.

"Where's John?"

"He's not coming."

"Not coming?"

"No."

No spew of words, no long-winded explanation. Just no. The word falls into me, deep and heavy with loss.

Allan gives Much another prod.

"And we're not coming either," Much says.

He's not looking at me when he says this. Perhaps he thinks it will make it easier for me to hear. It doesn't.

"What?"

Much keeps his head down. He toes crushed lavender seeds. I catch their smoky-sweet scent, and remember when the only thing worrying me was whether I wanted Guy to fuck me or not.

Allan sighs. "Look, not being funny, Robin. Gisborne helping us out is one thing, but you and him, and all of us here, in Locksley. How the hell is that going to work?"

"Did John tell you to say this?"

Much flicks a sideways look at Allan, quickly returns his gaze to the floor.

My plans for the gang are unravelling, and I have a strong suspicion that they are about to come undone completely.

"I thought you were all right with it," I say.

Much clears his throat, an indication that he's ready to make that speech now. He raises his head. His light blue eyes blaze with uncustomary defiance.

"_That_," he says, "was before we had time to think. _That_ was when we thought he'd be at the castle and out of the way."

"But we talked about it, Much."

"No, Robin. We didn't. You decided, as usual. We never got the chance to say. Well. We're saying now. If he's here, we're…we're not coming."

"We'd be discreet." I inwardly wince. A short while ago I was lying spread-eagled on the bed, while Guy's tongue rendered me helpless. We don't even have a door.

"Robin?"

A cool hand brushes the nape of my neck. Guy. How the hell did I miss him creeping up on me?

Allan and Much stare, wide-eyed, as Guy's fingers stroke up and down. It's all I can do not to make a noise, not to close my eyes in tormented longing. Because I know what he's doing. Look, he is saying. I won – in the end. I won your precious Robin Hood.

It's an awkward moment – my lover behind me, my friends in front, and me, in the middle – torn between their needs and my own.

"Is everything all right, Robin?" Guy asks.

His hand slides from my neck to my right shoulder, starts to knead. It feels incredible. What I wouldn't give for Much and Allan to disappear so that Guy can keep doing this. But a choked gasp from Much breaks the spell and, with more force than necessary, I knock Guy away.

Guy snorts, in either amusement or anger, I can't tell which.

"At least come in and we'll talk about it," I say.

"There's nothing to talk about," Much says. He gives Guy a bleak stare.

"Please."

Much turns to Allan. Allan shakes his head – an emphatic no.

"Look, Robin," Allan says. "We've said what we came to say. If you want to talk some more you'll have to come to the forest."

"Without him," Much adds.

"But—"

Allan starts to walk away, turns, and grabs Much's sleeve. "Come on, mate."

With a fleeting look of apology, Much drags after Allan.

I choke back my intended words of appeal, and watch as Allan shouts an enthusiastic greeting to Nessa's daughter, the lavender girl. She performs a half-curtsey, catches herself, and gives him a bemused smile.

Allan turns pointedly in my direction, as if to say 'look what you're missing.'

I slam the door on them.

"They do have a point," Guy says, equably.

I turn around. Guy is both shirtless and bootless. No wonder they were staring. No wonder I didn't hear him creeping up on me.

"What?"

"Well, let's face it, it took me forever to find your camp. But here, we'll be like sitting ducks."

"I just thought—"

"That's just it. You didn't think, did you?"

He's not being unkind. But I'm frustrated and angry, because he's right. I did not think this one through.

"This is my home," I counter.

He raises his eyebrows, waits.

I don't have a better argument. But I know I need one.

To give myself some thinking space, I stride to the dining table and scrape back a chair.

"If you're wanting something to eat, you're going to have a bloody long wait," Guy says, amused.

Ignoring him, I rest my elbows on the table, cup my chin in my hands, and stare unseeingly at the empty bowls and plates.

"You're right," I say at length. "I wasn't thinking."

I bet he's wondering how I ever managed to pull off so many clever stunts against him and the Sheriff. Truth is, without the gang, I'm just someone who happens to be handy with a bow.

"So, what are we going to do?" he asks.

"I don't know."

I twist his ring about my finger – as if it will magically give me an answer. But all I can think about is the warm bed upstairs, and screwing Guy.

I know I need to think sensibly about this, make some decisions. But it seems that my brain, along with the rest of me, has headed south for the winter.

"I'm going to talk to the gang," I tell him.

I push away from the table, and jerk to my feet. The high-backed chair clatters to the floor.

"What about me?" Guy asks.

"You?"

"Yes, me. Do you still want me to go into the castle?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"What do you mean, ridiculous. I thought that was your plan."

"Yeah, well, like you said, my planning's a bit off at the moment. And anyway, think about it. Prince John must know you're in Nottingham, even if he doesn't know you're in Locksley. He's going to be a bit suspicious of the fact you haven't even tried to make contact with him."

"I'll tell him I was distracted."

Guy walks over, and calmly rights the fallen chair. He is upon me before I have time to react. He pushes me into the hard table edge and slips his hands under my shirt. I think of last evening, of heady wine, and tongues, and my desperate longing.

"No!" I shove him backwards. "It won't work."

He gives me a filthy look.

"And that won't work either."

"Then what do you want me to do?"

He is serious now. He knows our whole future might depend on what I say next.

"Come with me to the forest."

Guy shakes his head. "I'm going to Nottingham."

"No, I won't let you. It's too risky."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"I'm not letting you go."

"Oh, I see. You think if I get found out that I'll talk. Tell John where your precious hideout is. Tell him—"

"It's not that."

"Yes, it is. You think I'll talk under torture."

"It's not the talking bit, you idiot. It's the torture bit I was thinking of. I'm not going to let you get hurt. I'll be damned if I'm going to lose anyone else."

Guy's eyes widen.

"What?" I say. "What?"

"I thought…I thought you didn't want me there, because you didn't trust me."

Now I understand. Despite the past few days, despite the fact that we are here, together, he still thinks I don't trust him to do right by me.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"I need to think."

I retrieve my heavy winter cloak and drape it over my shoulders.

"What's to think about? They want you to choose."

"No, Guy. I will not make that kind of choice."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to talk to them."

"I thought you just tried that."

"On my own."

"I see."

I wait for him to have another go at me. Instead, he says, "When will you be back?"

"I don't know."

I scoop up my bow and quiver and make for the door. As I open it, I am met by a frenzy of tumbling white. I had been right earlier, about the sky. But snow is good. It will ensure any tracks I make will soon be covered over. Less chance of Guy easily following me to the camp. Not that he is likely to try and stop me. Where the gang is concerned, he knows I'm not one to be messed with.

"Be careful," Guy warns.

"Go get dressed," I tell him.

Head down, I step into the swirling whiteness.

* * *

Sherwood: snowy white and beautiful, despite the mostly barren trees, despite the creeping cold and the shadowy snarls of undergrowth blocking my path. I have always loved this mighty forest. It was my boyhood playground, my adult protector and, finally, my home.

It's not my home any more.

I have taken the long route – partly for safety's sake, and partly to give myself time to think. But already I'm almost at the camp, and still no nearer to a solution, other than the obvious one – choose between them and him.

The forest is quiet, muffled. The only sounds are the creak of snow under my boots, and its soft patter on the trees' bare branches.

I reach a clearing, one of several dotted about the forest, and think to cheer myself by loosing an arrow or two at the delicate ridges of snow on the branches of a distant oak. When I was a boy, and there was snow, this was one of my favourite games.

But the once familiar action doesn't help. If anything, it makes me feel worse. Because when the arrow hits, the resulting powdery spray reminds me of happier times. Like the time my father stood patiently under the boughs of similar oak, watching his talented son showing off with his first bow. I knew he wanted to be elsewhere, and I'd been overjoyed when a craftily constructed mound of snow had thumped him on the head. But rather than chastising me, as I had expected, my father had laughed.

He wouldn't be laughing now. Not at the man I have become, talent or no talent. If he had still lived, and knew what I was doing back at the manor and village he'd once lorded over, he'd like as not pick up his own trusty bow and see that I ended up buried under the snow – for good.

I retrieve my spent arrow and follow a familiar track, one I have trodden many times. It is the track that leads to the kissing tree, to the place where I chose to bury Marian's ring and my broken heart. I could go another way, but I don't. It is nothing more than self-pity, I know that. And I also know, that when I pass that tree, the bulky band on my middle finger will silently mock the delicate, bejewelled ring buried at its roots.

I keep walking, following the track, until I reach the tree. You can't really miss it. A colossal oak, the biggest in the forest. And there are our initials, carved on its enormous trunk. I did that. With a stolen knife.

I stand close to the tree, think I should make a gesture of some kind. I'm not sure what. A few words. A few tears. Something. In the end, I simply trace my gloved hand over the letter M and walk away.

* * *

The campfire is a welcoming sight.

They are eating. Great bowls of steaming stew or soup. They being Much and Allan. John is nowhere to be seen.

I nod in silent greeting and make my way over to the fire. Much wordlessly hands me a bowl of soup. Allan crams the last of his meal into his mouth and mumbles something about needing more firewood. When Much makes to follow him, I tell him to stay where he is.

He ladles more soup into his bowl, even though it is not yet empty.

"Much, I—"

"This is awkward," he interrupts.

"Much?"

"This is more than awkward."

He stares into his bowl, unwilling or unable to look at me.

"Just say it."

"I thought you liked ladies, I thought—"

"We've talked about this before, Much."

"Yes, I know, but I don't get it. I mean. What is it, Robin? Is it just him, or do you fancy…I don't know…Allan?"

"No, Much. I don't fancy Allan."

"Then what? What?"

"I thought I already explained – about the boat, France – you know."

"Yes, I know that. But look at what we've been through together. We—"

Much looks up from his food, his eyes widening.

"You…you…don't fancy me, do you? I mean…that would be too…I mean. I'm always saying how I love you, and I do love you, Robin. But not…I didn't mean—"

"No, Much," I laugh. "I don't fancy you."

Much's look of relief is quickly replaced by one of puzzlement.

"I still don't understand," he says.

"Marian."

"Marian?"

"I can talk about Marian with him."

"You could with me, if you wanted to. I didn't think you wanted to. But you say you will with him, and yet he was the one who killed her. That doesn't make any sense."

"He killed her because he wanted her."

"That makes even less sense."

I don't like where this conversation is going.

"When's John—"

"Are you coming back to the forest?" Much blurts.

"No."

His eyes are pleading. He will not give me up without a fight.

"Master. You know Prince John will soon learn you are in Locksley and send men. He's not going to forget about us, not after what you…I mean…what we, did to his guards."

"I know."

"Then why did you suggest we all go to Locksley?"

"I don't know."

"You knew we wouldn't come."

It is not a question.

"I wasn't sure. I thought it would be fine. I thought if it was all right—"

"And is it?"

"Yes."

I sit quietly, watch as the word sinks in.

"Oh."

"I don't understand," I say. You all seemed fine with it a couple of days ago."

"That's because it was such a shock, and because we thought once you got to Locksley you'd realise you'd made a mistake and—"

Much shakes his head. He starts shovelling soup into his mouth, quashing whatever it is he was about to say next.

It seems that while I've been gone, they have had time to think, and to talk. They have had time to discuss the full implications of what I am doing. And they know, that by condoning it, they are likely to join me in suffering the consequences, if the populace should learn of my guilty secret.

"It's not a mistake, Much. But if it's any consolation, I miss you, all of you."

"But not enough to give him up?"

"No."

"Then I don't know what to say, Robin."

"Say you're still my friend."

"I don't know." He looks sad. "All the things we've been through – you and me. Don't they count for anything?"

"Of course they do, Much. They count for everything. But how could I explain it to you, when I didn't understand it myself. I thought it was all to do with Marian, and it was. Mostly. Sometimes I just thought I was going mad. And then—"

"And then?"

"I can't explain."

"Try."

"I just want to be with him."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"And what about him? Does he care about you?"

"Does it matter?"

"I need to know he won't hurt you."

"He won't."

I notice Much staring at the ring that I've been absently fiddling with. I did try wearing it around my neck, after making the point to Guy about the idiocy of wearing an adornment so clearly displaying his family's mark. Guy had seemed satisfied with my answer. But after only half a day, I couldn't bear it any more. It reminded me too much of wearing Marian's ring. I had slipped it back on my finger, where it has remained ever since.

Now, I feel stupid. Now, I feel like dropping it into the snow and making some excuse to Guy about having lost it on my travels. But that would be a lie, and lying to him is the one thing I have promised myself I won't do.

"So…er…was that the first time?" Much asks.

"The first time, what?"

"You know…with a…with a man?"

"Yes."

"But not the last, I take it?"

"No."

I watch as he chases the last piece of meat around his bowl. Poor Much, he doesn't want to know, yet he burns with curiosity.

"Much?"

"Yes?"

"Did you guess? Before we walked into the camp? Before we kissed?"

"Not really. I mean. I knew something was bothering you. I thought it was Marian. But then Rowena—"

He clamps his mouth, and carefully sits his bowl in the snow.

"Then Rowena what?" I prompt.

"Nothing."

"Tell me."

"I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention. I…I think she was just talking to herself, you know – trying to work something out."

_You belong to someone else. I can't compete with a ghost, Robin._

Perhaps I had said Guy's name in my sleep after all, and Rowena had just been sparing me.

"I think she likes me," Much says.

He looks glad to change the subject.

"She does, Much. I'm sure she does."

"She said I was—"

"What?"

"Uncomplicated. That doesn't sound like much of a compliment, does it?"

"Oh, believe me, Much. It is."

We sit in uneasy silence, watching the snow piling into Much's empty bowl.

"I ought to go," I say, picking up my bow.

Much startles, looks skywards. "But it's still snowing."

"Yes, Much. I'd kind of noticed that."

"You could stay. Your bed's still made up. And maybe John will come back and we could…you know...talk, and—"

"No, Much. I'm going home."

"Please, Robin."

"Say goodbye to Allan for me. Oh, and, Much."

"Yes?"

"Tell John—"

"What?"

Yes, what? That things will sort themselves out? That if he doesn't think about it too much it will just go away? That nothing's changed?

"Nothing," I reply.

I walk away.

"Robin. Wait."

I wave over my shoulder, and keep walking, certain Much will try again. If he does, I'll go back, just for tonight.

He doesn't.

I quicken my pace, and raise my eyes unblinkingly at the falling snow, if only to pretend that this doesn't hurt as much as it really does.

* * *

My trudge back to Locksley is a cold and lonely one, made worse by the coming darkness and my even darker thoughts.

It is only when I reach the comforting sight of the village, and especially that of the manor house, that I begin to feel my despondency lifting.

Easing open the heavy oak door, I half expect to find Guy stretched out on the floor, drunk and asleep, like last evening. Or worse still, in a foul temper at my lengthy absence and ready to chuck something at me.

I flick my eyes around the hall. No Guy.

There is, however, a roaring fire in the grate. Upon the table sit two plates of food and two large silver goblets. Wine, I guess. The shutters are closed, and several fat candles add to the fire's glow.

"Robin?"

Guy makes his way down the stairs. He looks different.

"Do you want to eat?" he asks, indicating the table.

I know what it is. He's not wearing his customary black. I don't know why, but this makes me laugh. I think black suits him better. But I can't say anything, because I know he has a done this – for me.

"Don't you—"

Again, Guy indicates the table, doubtless trying to draw my attention away from his unusual attire.

"I'm not hungry," I say. I peel off my gloves and hang my cloak on a nearby hook. "And you needn't have changed for dinner," I grin.

"Oh."

At first I think I have hurt him and wish I could take the clever remark back.

Happily, Guy laughs. If anything, he looks relieved.

"That's good," he says. He joins me by the fireside. "Because these breeches are awfully tight."

It's an invitation. And not one I'm about to turn down.

* * *

Naked, we stand in front of the fire, the food and wine forgotten.

Outside, the world is white and still. But in here, we are blood red and fluid.

I cannot kiss him enough. I cannot touch him enough. I know I am trying to bury my disappointment over the gang's refusal to accept us. My kisses are ferocious. Guy submits to them willingly, and doesn't ask.

"Here." I break away, breathless. I tug on Guy's shoulders, urging him towards the worn hearthrug.

Kneeling, we continue to kiss, hands running over fired-warmed flesh, tongues searching and insistent. I think of the gang, huddled around the campfire, cold and shivering. Despising me.

"Turn over," I grunt.

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Robin, we haven't—"

"Turn over."

A couple of heartbeats go by, and I think he is about to refuse. Something akin to fear flickers in his dark blue eyes. Then it is gone, and he turns and faces the rug.

"Do you know what you're doing?" he asks.

"I've got a pretty good idea."

* * *

I can't remember the Arabic now, but roughly translated it means Sinners' Alley. There were quite a few of these shadowy little haunts, in the Holy Land. Especially after we arrived. Bold, righteous Crusaders. With God on our side, and bloodlust in our hearts. Ready to fight, and to fornicate.

I only visited it a handful of times, and then always the same girl. I guess I thought this made it more moral, somehow. But there were plenty of them down there, plying their trade, alongside the men, plying theirs.

We rarely spoke, even though I had mastered a good deal of the language. We just got on with it. She helped to rid me of my shameful ache in response to many a drunken conversation I would rather have not heard, let alone acted on.

One night, after a particularly well-documented tale of a male threesome and all it entailed, I found myself once again at her door. This time horrendously drunk, after having lingered too long, wanting to hear the outcome of those men's debauchery, and using the excuse of simply wanting the drink and the company, and no more than that, to hang around and listen. Eventually, when both my supposed morals and my breeches, could no longer take the strain, I had staggered to her small room where she had ministered to me.

There were more meetings after that, and always I turned up the worse for drink, because I stayed too long. The knights teased me, said I would turn into a drunkard. I let them think it was the drink I craved. I kept my hands on the table, and my lap well hidden. Then I went to her house. It meant nothing, I told myself; their filthy talk. It could have been about women and I'd have reacted in the same way. We'd all been away from home for too long and I missed Marian, had yet to taste her sweet flesh.

Now, I wonder, looking at Guy's smooth, fire-glazed skin, if I had been lying to myself even as long ago as that, just as I had lied to myself about so many other things these past few months.

Guy's long hair is spread across his warm back - dark, wavy tendrils. I lean down and brush it away from his ear. "Trust me," I whisper.

"Fine," he says, indistinctly. "But not the one with the ring, all right."

"All right."

* * *

It takes a while; I'm not used to being inept at something. But Guy keeps up a gentle flow of encouragement, in between his anticipatory growls and moans, and I feel a measure of smugness at keeping myself in check, and not ending up like some inexperienced lad on his first plunge into the untested and unknown.

In the end, it all comes down to trust, a jar of grease swiped from our horseless stables, and the dredging up of those detestable and, at the time, unfathomable yearnings, in Acre.

The fire crackles and spits. The candles stutter as wisps of winter wind force their way through the shutters' cracks. Guy's bunches the edge of the hearthrug in his left hand. His other hand is buried beneath him.

Then I remember – Guy has done this before. He told me last night when he slipped into bed with me. I am stupidly, irrationally jealous. God knows why. He said it had not been of his choosing. He said it meant nothing to him. But I can't stop myself. Without warning, I ram into him, hard.

Guy cries out, and I wonder if I have hurt him. But it is too late. One more delicious thrust, and my lust spurts into his willing flesh. And as it does, all my insecurities, shame, and guilt, fall away. It's just him and me, and this heady moment of release. To hell with the gang. I can take on the world single-handed. Because right now, the only side I'm on, is my own.

I slide a hand under him.

"God, Robin," Guy exclaims. He tenses; a coiled spring.

There is no God, or heaven, waiting for us, Guy, I'm sure of this. I ease away, watch as my spilled lust trickles between his muscled thighs. Guy gasps, jerks violently, and joins me in anointing the hearthrug. No Marian either.

And for the first time, it doesn't feel so bad.

**to be continued...**


	7. Past and Present

**Past and Present**

I'm sure there is something we should say or do, in between peeling ourselves off the hearthrug and waking up tomorrow morning. I have no idea what. Nothing, other than those long buried snatches of drunken conversation in Acre, has prepared me for this.

Guy is quiet, his face turned away from me, presumably content just to lie. Possibly asleep. Lust sated.

Time to think then. Time to face up to a few things. Starting with how I ended up ramming something into Guy other than the sharp end of my dagger.

Forget Marian. Forget pirates and sinking boats. This thing started longer ago than that. Long before Guy found me, alone and despairing, in an alleyway in France, where he'd placed a hand on my shoulder in tentative friendship and all I could feel was unholy desire. It had started in the Holy Land, in Acre, surrounded by carousing knights and overflowing goblets. And it had had nothing to do with loneliness, or being far from home, and everything to do with desire. I'd desired this.

_Admit it_.

I hug closer to Guy, until my nose is pressing into the back of his neck. I smell a whisper of leather, and warm skin, and hair that could do with a wash. I smell Guy of Gisborne, and it doesn't frighten me, not any more.

His hair is tickling my face, and I bunch the dark locks in my hand and drape them over his shoulder.

Guy sleeps on. And I think some more.

It wouldn't have happened with anyone in the gang. Couldn't. We were friends. Far too close for comfort. But what about Guy? Had there ever been a time, despite the bad blood between us, where I'd looked at Guy, and wondered what it would be like, to be this close to him? Think fights. Think of the times I'd had him, my knife or sword at his throat. Why hadn't I killed him? Why? I'd had every right, every reason. Forget the non-killing doctrine I imposed on the gang; sheriff Vaisey and Guy of Gisborne should have been the exception. And the gang would have forgiven me. Especially after that time in the cave, when I thought Marian was dead. So, what had stopped me from killing him?

Think back. Think clashing swords, the dull thud of a well-aimed fist, arms and legs, fighting for dominance. Think of the two of us, slugging it out. I remember the easy insults and accusations that flew off my tongue, concealing the fact that his touch aroused me, even though that touch was with the intent to disarm and defeat. I'd convinced myself it was the thrill of the fight that made me hard. But it wasn't. It was him.

_Admit it_.

Guy sighs, but doesn't wake up. I wish he would. I don't like having time to think. Thinking means memories, and memories lead to guilt. And right now, I know I should be feeling guilty as hell. I'd lusted after Guy when, in a fairer world, I would have been Marian's husband to be. I'm not saying I didn't love her. I did. Everything I felt for her was real and true. But everything I felt about him was also real and true. I know that now.

I twist my head around, and look at the fire. Glowing embers. We must have been lying here for ages, each waiting for the other to speak, or to make a move.

"Guy?"

No response.

"Guy?"

I give him a gentle nudge. He groans and jerks his head up.

"Robin?"

"You were asleep," I tell him.

"Oh."

Guy pushes up onto his knees, scrapes his hair from his face, and turns to look at me, bleary-eyed.

I wanted him to wake up. Now, I'm sorry he has. It means we will have to talk. I'm not good at talking. Much can attest to that.

Perhaps I should just kiss him, start things all over again. At least it will save the need for conversation. And he does look highly kissable, right now, with his messy hair and sleep-innocent eyes. I resist. Not only is it getting damn cold, but I know we will only end up back at this point, and there's only so long we can lie in front of a rapidly dwindling fire without our clothes on.

"Sorry," I say.

"What for?"

"I thought maybe—"

"What?"

"I thought maybe I hurt you?"

Guy glances down at the rug, at the unmistakeable evidence of our depraved coupling.

"No. You took me by surprise, that's all. I thought it would—"

"Would what?"

"Nothing. It was unexpected, I meant. But not unpleasant. Far from it."

Guy plants his backside onto the rug. Hugging his knees to his chest, he stares at the final speck of red nestling amid the papery remains of the fire.

"So I can…I mean we can—"

"Absolutely," he says.

"Good."

"Good."

I flick my eyes at the jar of grease sitting by the hearth. I can tell Guy is also looking at it, even if he is pretending not to. We both reach for it at the same time. I let him take it, and am almost disappointed when he jams the lid on.

"Let's save some for later, shall we," Guy says.

Later. An anticipatory thrill spikes me, quickly followed by apprehension. Because for the first time in my life I know I am going to willingly turn my back on Guy of Gisborne.

"Fire's nearly out," I say.

"Mmm."

"Perhaps we should go upstairs, to bed?"

"That sounds like a plan."

"Not really. I'm through with plans."

Guy gives me an 'I don't believe you' look. "Are you sure that's wise, Robin. It might prove to be your undoing."

"I'm already undone, in case you hadn't noticed."

I get up and offer Guy a hand.

"Shall we?"

Smiling, Guy accepts my invitation.

I take a couple of steps, stop, and look at the disarray of clothes strewn between the table and the hearth.

"Where did you find these clothes?" I ask.

I bend down and pick up a faded green tunic and a wide leather belt. I recognise the belt, if not the tunic. It is the one my father beat me with. Ten lashes for my 10 years of age. For disobeying him and messing about in Locksley pond. For taking part in a swimming race with Guy.

"In that little room, near our bed."

_Our bed._

"Oh. Right."

It used to be my bed. Then it was his. For a short while it was Rowena's. Long-limbed, doe-eyed, Rowena. The girl who dressed in men's clothing and could handle a bow almost as well as me.

I think of our quick and clumsy lovemaking on top of his leathers. A salve for my hurt, that's what she'd said. At the time, it had seemed reason enough, and she wasn't exactly backward in coming forward. It was a reprehensible thing to do though, considering where my mind had been while it was going on. Not that it mattered, in the end. If anything, we did each other a favour. She stopped idolising me, and I finally realised what I really wanted.

"What?" Guy asks.

"Nothing. Stick to black. It's more you."

"Fair enough."

Guy makes for the stairs, leaving me to pick up the clothes. I hope he doesn't think I'm always going to pick up after him. Then I look at the table – at the bread, at the cheese and meats, and the goblets of wine. I'm not sure how or where Guy got them from, and I've already decided not to ask, but it was thoughtful.

It seems a shame to waste good food and, even though I wasn't that hungry before the sex, I am now.

Shrugging into a shirt to keep warm, I sit at the table and survey the fine spread. There's a round cheese, pale and creamy; bread, whiter than I've seen in a long time; meat pottage and slices of pork; a large bowl of apples, and a pitcher of red wine.

My hand hovers over the various offerings, undecided. I swoop on some meat and vaguely wonder if I should take Guy a plate.

The slice of pork is halfway to my mouth, when a thought stabs up – a sad, little pain. Of the gang, sitting in the cold and snow, eating soup. Soup that Much had probably gone to great lengths to make. I can just see him now; bumbling about in the snow, griping about the lack of prey and how cold his hands and feet are. Finally finding some small animal, a rabbit or a squirrel, skewering it with an arrow, and cursing the fact that my fine aim isn't there to help him. And then, after all that huffing and puffing, getting an ear bashing from Allan for not finding something decent to eat. That's if Allan hasn't already decided to head into Nottingham to find a warm tavern, and an even warmer tavern lass, to assuage his appetite.

I lay down the slice of pork, no longer hungry.

* * *

Guy is already in bed. He has lit a single candle for me to see by. I notice the broken shutter has been covered over with an item of clothing wedged into place.

I dump the clothes in the far corner of the room and approach the bed. Guy flips back the blanket. I'm still thinking about the gang, out in that cold, snowy forest. And John. Where the hell could he be? The cave?

No. I mustn't think about the cave, or John, or the forest. Not if I want to get into this bed with Guy.

Guy yawns, hugely.

"Tired," I ask, innocently.

I slip onto the cool sheet and tug the blanket up to my chin, wishing I'd thought to light a fire in the room.

"It's been a long day," he says.

"Try slogging through heavy snow all the way to Sherwood and back."

"No thanks. I'll stick to these four walls if you don't mind."

"You never know, you might have enjoyed yourself. We could have built a snowman."

"Child."

I can hear the smile in his voice. It pleases me to think that we can talk so easily when we are lying in a bed together.

"Have you ever wondered," Guy says, "what we would say or do if John's lot were to burst in on us?"

"No."

I slide towards Guy and press into his naked flesh, more for warmth than anything. Although I'm ready for the anything whenever he is.

"Don't you think we ought to?"

"I think we'd have more to worry about than our reputations, Guy, particularly if we were being attacked. Besides, we could always say it was an innocent mistake. You know. You thought it was your house. I thought it was mine. Both got into bed at the same time. That sort of thing."

"I'm being serious."

"So am I."

"No, you're not. You're being infuriating. Don't you ever take anything seriously?"

For a couple of heartbeats, there is a ghost in the room, tugging at my chest.

"Robin, what's the matter? Did I—"

"Nothing. Sorry. I do have a plan. Well, half a plan."

"I thought you'd given up on plans."

Unable to think of a suitable retort, I lean over to blow out the candle. I smile. I'd wondered where that little jar had gone.

Draping an arm across Guy's chest, I slip my cold feet in between his warm ones.

"I'm going to talk to them again, Guy."

"Who?"

"The gang."

"Must you?"

"I can't leave things the way they are."

"Why not?"

"Because they need me."

"No, they don't. This is just you being the big _I am_."

"No, it's not. This is about doing the right thing."

"Ha!"

"What?"

"You. If you could only hear yourself talk."

"Guy, I promised Richard, before we left the Holy Land, that I would see to things. I promised Marian. I'm not stupid. I know I can't do this on my own. And by that, I mean the gang. And you. Prince John is no better than Vaisey when it comes to fair play. By now he must know Vaisey isn't coming back. Who knows what kind of man he might appoint Sheriff."

"You could always put yourself up for the position."

"Now, who's being funny," I say.

"Well, whoever it is," Guy says, "he can't be any worse than Vaisey. That man was a fucking bastard."

Guy's hand clenches and unclenches against my hipbone.

"I agree he was the worst kind of evil, Guy. But Vaisey was your benefactor for a long time and, as far as I know, you were always loyal to him. At least until the boat. To be honest, I'm surprised you had it in you to kill him."

"He used, deceived, belittled and openly ridiculed me, Robin. I didn't always see it at the time, but he did. Marian tried to tell me. She—"

"Please, Guy." I put a finger to his lips. "Let's not talk about Vaisey. Or Marian. Not tonight."

I know he has things he would like to say, to tell me, and I feel bad about quietening him. But I'm tired of the ghosts.

Guy lets go my arm, the one he's been absently stroking, and pointedly offers me his back. I guess this is his way of telling me he is angry with me, which I suppose is better than a smack in the jaw, or worse.

I wait a few heartbeats, and tentatively push a leg between his thighs. He stiffens, but doesn't push me away. A little longer, and I encircle him with my arms. I feel him relax into me and realise I am forgiven.

As I fit myself against the contours of his back and buttocks, I think of the fire, and the hearthrug, and the little pot of grease sitting on the bedside table.

Guy snorts. "I felt that, Hood."

He must be tired. He's even forgotten my name.

"Later," I tell him.

"Later," he mumbles.

Guy falls asleep, and I close my eyes and hope the ghosts leave me alone tonight.

**to be continued...**


	8. The Box Affair

**The Box Affair**

I wake, not to the 'later' of our mumbled promises, but to the anguished jerks and kicks of a nightmare.

Not mine.

His.

Although I can no longer see the sky through the blocked shutter, from what light there is in the room, I guess it is well past dawn.

Guy is tossing and turning, still asleep. His head is switching from side to side, and every now and then, an arm or a leg smacks against my own.

Much told me I did similar things, whenever I had bad dreams. That, sometimes, I flailed about, as though trying to beat off an assailant. Other times, I spoke aloud, or shouted, mostly in English but, occasionally, in Arabic, although if I asked Much to repeat what I'd said, he always told me that he couldn't remember, or that he couldn't pronounce the word.

I didn't need to tell Much what the nightmares were about. He knew. He had been there, fighting alongside me. He had seen the blood, and the death, in all its crimson glory. And he had been there, on that fateful day. That day, when, despite my best efforts, which included coming close to exchanging blows with Richard, we turned our backs on God, once and for all. "The infidel must die", the King had declared. "This is war".

It was also a massacre.

By that time, I was thoroughly disillusioned with the so-called 'glorious Crusade', and wished for nothing more than to return home to my beloved England, and to Marian. But I stayed. Out of duty. Out of loyalty to King Richard. And I did what was asked of me. If there was anything to be salvaged from that terrible day, it was the fact that I learned how to be quick and merciful.

I glance at Guy, at the tiny blisters of sweat gathering on his brow, and think perhaps my downward slide into sodomy is not the reason I shall end up in hell, that perhaps eternal damnation has been my destination all along.

These past few months, the horrors of the Holy Land have become overshadowed by Marian's death and, more recently still, by my confusion and torment over my sordid relationship with Guy. Sometimes all three entangle together and I will have frightening dreams of thrusting a sword into a white-robed Marian, while a Saracen stands behind me, arm raised, poised to plunge a dagger into my back, and Guy is shouting at me to run and keep on running, even as Vaisey is squeezing the life-blood out of him.

Yes, I know a thing or two about nightmares.

I seek out Guy's hand under the heavy blanket and wrap it with my own.

"Guy," I say, softly.

He continues to thrash, unaware of my touch.

"Guy."

I sit and brush the sweat-soaked hair away from his face.

"No." Guy tugs at my hand. "Don't." He jerks. "Marian!"

His eyes snap open and meet my own. She is there. My Marian. Our Marian. Drowned in their glittering blue depths.

"Robin?"

"Yes."

Dazedly, Guy peels himself away from the bed-sheet.

"What—" He shakes his head and grabs hold of my arm, as if to prove I am real.

"It was a dream, Guy. Just a bad dream."

"Robin. Sorry. Did I? Are you—"

His fear is fading, replaced by relief.

"I'm fine, Guy. Really. But if you could loosen your grip on my bad arm, I'd be even better."

"Sorry."

Guy lets go my bare arm. There are marks, little crescent-moons, where his fingernails have dug in. There is also my ravaged tattoo, that lasting legacy of the pirate's sword that would have taken my life, but for Guy tackling me to the ship's deck.

"Wait here," I tell him.

I slip out the bed, pad over to the window and pull, what I now find to be a pair of worn breeches, away from the broken shutter. The sky is violet-grey and it is snowing again.

Shivering, I return to the bed and sit next to Guy.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

His face is buried in his hands, curtained by his long hair.

"Sometimes," he says, indistinctly, "I wish I didn't have to go to sleep. Other times, I wish I would never wake up."

Guy rubs his face and turns to me. "Of course, it's better now. Now that I wake up and see you."

He smiles, awkwardly, embarrassed by his affectionate admittance.

"You're not really seeing me at my best, in the morning."

"Oh, I don't know." Guy lifts the blanket and rakes his eyes over my exposed torso. "From where I'm sitting, I think I can see some of your best bits."

Leaning across me, Guy swipes up the little jar of grease.

"Now," he says. "I believe it's my turn."

"Are you sure?" I ask, wondering how he can push the nightmare aside so easily.

"I'm sure."

He removes the jar's lid. I watch as he pushes the glutinous contents around with his middle finger and feel myself respond with a shameful twinge of lust. Guy looks up and grins. This time, his dark blue eyes glint, not with torment, but with desire.

"Turn over," he says.

I do as he asks, sprawling on top of the damp patch of sheet where he had lain.

"Do you remember," Guy says, straddling my legs, "the barn, in Étienne?"

"I remember."

"It was raining," he says.

"And we were drunk."

Guy grazes a finger down my spine. "Not so drunk that I couldn't see straight."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Guy's greased finger slips inside me.

"Don't tense," he says. "It'll make things easier."

I unclench my hands, breathe out.

"I wasn't so drunk," he continues, "that I didn't notice you, lying there, face down in the straw, with your boots off. I wasn't so drunk, that I didn't wonder what it would be like, to fuck you."

He inserts a second finger. There is discomfort, accompanied by an unexpected twitch of arousal. Guy of Gisborne is going to take me from behind and I am going to let him - the ultimate surrender of Robin Hood.

He slides his fingers in and out. Teasing. Preparing me.

"I'd considered it before," he says. "But that was the first time I realised how much I wanted you. Couldn't risk it though. I had no idea how you'd react, a knife in my ribs, most likely. And then there was that insufferable gang of yours. They'd have slit my throat from ear to ear, if they'd caught me. They'd have thought I was raping you. And they'd have been right. Then, at least."

He shuffles backwards, easing the pressure from my thighs.

"I want you on all fours," Guy says.

"What?"

"It'll be easier."

"For you, or for me?"

"Just do it."

_Please, forgive me, Marian. And if you're watching, for God's sake, shut your eyes._

I push up onto my elbows and knees.

"Robin, just relax."

"I'm trying to, but—"

"You know," Guy interrupts, his fingers sliding away, "I was so damn hard just watching you, lying there, with bits of straw in your hair, and those begging-to-be-untied laces, I nearly came before I'd worked off my leathers. That was when I knew I had to leave, knew I had to get away from you."

His cock takes the place of his fingers. Almost immediately, the discomfort lessens, replaced by an aching need, increasing with every push and pull.

"I was watching you, Robin, at that archery contest. Knew you'd win. Didn't think that pompous, French, lump of lard would go after you though. Still, the fighting helped. I got quite desperate, watching you burying those arrows into the target board. Had to go find some place to hide. But then, afterwards, when I found you in that alleyway, I knew. When you looked at me, I knew. And so did you."

"Robin?"

"Mmm?"

"You're not saying much."

"I'm concentrating."

"What?"

"For God's sake, Guy. Since when did you become so damn talkative?"

Guy laughs. "Here. Let me help you." He slides a hand underneath me. "Better?"

"Yes. Now, just shut up so—"

Guy thrusts, deeply.

I gasp.

"Sorry," he says.

"No, it's all right. Keep going," I tell him.

I look at my fingers, splayed upon the cold, sweat-stained sheet and at the bulky, silver ring that should not be there, but is. I think of Marian's sweet little ring, buried in the frozen earth, and it feels like a shard of ice, piercing my heart.

"Guy?"

"What?" he growls.

His thrusts are becoming deeper, starting to hurt. I don't care. I need the distraction - anything not to think about Marian.

"Keep talking."

"What?"

"Talk to me, while you—"

"I thought you just told me to shut up."

"Please."

Guy leans down and whispers in my ear. "Do you want me to talk dirty?"

"You can recite the Paternoster for all I care."

He thrusts again, harder, so I almost lose my balance.

"There's such a lot I don't know about you, Locksley."

"You said that before," I tell him, "in the barn. And it's Robin, by the way."

"I'm right though, aren't I? _Robin_."

"Guy?"

"Yes?"

"I can't—"

His hand stills, starts again.

"Can't what?" he says. He's in trouble himself now. I can tell.

I open my eyes and glance beneath me. For a heartbeat, I entertain the notion of knocking his hand away and leaping from the bed. Not because I'm not enjoying it – I am. But because my head is telling me that this is wrong, that I shouldn't be here. I don't. Because I want the moment of sweet release. I want the nightmares to go away.

"Robin, I'm going to—"

Guy hisses, loudly, and half slumps onto my back, desire satisfied.

For a short while there is only the sound of our breaths: his, soft and slow, mine, fast and furious.

Guy's long hair falls against the side of my face. He whispers, "The Paternoster? I don't think prayer's going to save you now, Robin."

His own need satisfied, Guy gives me his full attention.

I shudder. Whimper. For a dizzying moment the world stops. Starts again. I break. Watch as my spent lust pools with his.

I'm sure I should be crying. Or dead. Or something. Instead, I'm grinning like an idiot.

"Guy. If I'd known things would be like this between us, I'd have taken up with you years ago," I say, collapsing onto the soiled sheet.

Guy falls on top of me. He's heavy, and warm, and I can't believe how much I need him.

"It certainly would have saved all that bother of us going after one another all this time, not to mention that scruffy gang of yours."

The gang. My friends. Out in the cold and the snow. Waiting for me to come to my senses.

I guess I should have known the happy moment couldn't last.

* * *

Guy watches me dress.

He laughs as I stumble, trying to pull on my breeches.

"It wasn't that bad, was it?" he grins.

"Not at all," I say. There is a lingering heat in my buttocks and I have this ridiculous fear that I might walk differently.

"What?" Guy asks.

"Nothing."

"Good. Because when you get back from the forest, they'll be a fire waiting downstairs."

His promise is enough to make me want to forget the whole gang and forest thing and simply stay here. We could eat the food from last night. We could drink wine and take turns throwing logs on the fire, in between the sex. And most of all we could talk. Really talk. And perhaps I'll uncover the Guy of Gisborne no one else got to know.

"I won't be long," I tell him, stepping outside. The snow is halfway up my boots.

"Looking at that," Guy says, "you'll be lucky to make it to the top of the hill."

"Just don't start without me," I say. I turn around and give him a broad wink.

Guy grins and shoves a hand down the front of his leathers.

I bend and scoop up a handful of snow, smile as it splats against the shut door.

* * *

Much is cooking.

I'm beginning to think he's doing it just for the sake of something to do, and not because anyone is hungry. After all, there's only him and Allan; John is still nowhere to be seen.

Much wordlessly offers me a bowl of steaming soup. It's the same soup as yesterday. I think of the food that Guy laid out for us, back at Locksley and have a momentary stab of guilt.

This time, Allan eats with us.

Apart from discussing the depth of snow and how and where to make the village drops, Allan and Much have little to say. It's almost as though they've decided to pretend Guy doesn't exist. I think I liked it better when they openly attacked him.

Allan tells me he has been to Nottingham twice already. He tells me the town is ominously quiet. Prince John has not been seen for at least two weeks, if not longer. The castle appears to be in a state of lock-down. No one goes in or comes out, apart from the odd trader willing to drag himself through the snow or a castle servant or messenger. I'm beginning to think I should have let Guy go into the castle after all. At least that way we might have some idea of what the Prince is up to.

After eating my fill, and finding nothing else to talk about that won't upset at least one of us, I take my leave.

No plans have been made, other than I will come back tomorrow.

* * *

It is the same the next day. And in the days and weeks that follow.

When I ask about John's whereabouts, Allan tells me he is around but has decided to make himself scarce whenever I turn up. I wonder if I should turn up in the middle of the night and catch him out. But I don't. I arrive before breakfast, leave after supper. I help with the village drops, essential during this spell of severe weather, when it is harder than ever to move goods and Nottingham's market has all but ground to a halt. I come alone, figuring that sooner or later the gang will finally work out that Guy and me are for keeps. But it's not the same. And it never will be.

Allan finds every opportunity to make snide remarks, as if my present behaviour cancels out his earlier treachery ten times over. And Much simply wanders about the camp looking perpetually sad and bewildered. John is never there.

It seems I cannot go forwards and I cannot go back, and it looks as though I will have to make a choice after all.

* * *

Today is no different, except that it has finally stopped snowing.

I enter Locksley Manor to find Guy warming his hands in front of the fire. I hardly take two steps before he asks me if there is news from Nottingham, if I have spoken to Little John, and if there is a plan for tomorrow. No, no, and no, I tell him.

I place my weapons by the door and take off my outer clothing. Guy pours me the now customary goblet of wine, tops up his own, and nods towards the evening meal. I know he hasn't had much to do with it, other than placing it on the table perhaps. Elisabeth, the lavender girl, is the one who stocks our larder, at Guy's request. I decide not to tell him that Much has already fed me and will eat what I can. After all, I did say I needed to fatten up.

But today one of my boots has been letting in water. There is an old pair under the bed, not all that comfortable I recall, but at least in good repair. I tell Guy to start without me and make my way upstairs.

On hands and knees, I grope under the bed, searching for the boots. However, it is not the texture of soft leather I touch, but something else – something hard and wooden.

I don't recognise the box. I certainly don't recall its being mine. My interest piqued, I forget about the boots.

Leaning against the bed, I place the box on my lap and fiddle with its clasp. It is locked, and there are no hairpins to be found in this house anymore. In the end I find a small pick, one Will Scarlett gave me, and successfully trick the lock into opening.

There are coins in the box – masses of them – enough to keep the village fed for several weeks, not to mention keeping the new, and somewhat odious, tax collector from turning my people out their homes. But this money is also damning evidence. Either Guy is losing interest in me, or he has returned to his old ways.

I have a choice. Put the box back under the bed and say nothing – or confront him.

* * *

"What's this?"

I bang the box on the table.

Guy keeps eating.

"Well. I'm waiting."

Carefully, Guy pushes aside his plate and comes to his feet.

"It's a safety net," he says.

"A safety net. For what?"

"For the future. Our future, or mine. It depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On whether you're going to keep giving all we have to every poor bugger that comes knocking on our door."

"It's what I do, Guy. You know that."

"What's wrong with keeping a little bit for us?"

"You call this a little bit."

I dig my hands into the box and let the coins shower nosily onto the table.

"We have everything we need here, Guy. Unless you're planning on redecorating the house perhaps."

Ignoring my feeble attempt at humour, Guy starts to scoop the fallen money back into the box.

I slam my hand on top of his and our eyes lock in the knowledge that we have started something.

"I want to know," I demand. "You said, "our future, or mine". What did you mean by that?"

"You must think me a fool."

"What?"

He yanks his hand from under mine and glares at me.

"You said it yourself, Robin, we have everything we need. Of course, what you really mean is _you_ have everything _you_ need: your home, your friends, your precious people. What do I have? Nothing. Nothing except you and your favours."

"That's not true."

"Yes it is!" He slaps the table, making the coins jump. "You've hardly said a word to me in days. You go off to the forest, to be with them, leaving me here. I can't even go out the door. All those bloody hostile looks the villagers give me. The only reason they leave me alone is because you told them to. I'm nothing more than a meaningless fuck. A piece of meat you can come home to—"

"That's enough!"

I reach across the table and grab a handful of leather.

"You could leave me in an instant," he snarls, grasping my wrist and twisting my arm painfully. "You have choices. You—"

"Guy!" I had no idea he felt this way.

"— could go back to your old life," he continues.

"Not without you, you idiot."

Guy lets go my arm and straightens up. He looks at me, incredulously, as though I've said something really stupid.

"What do you mean, not without me?"

"For God's sake, Guy. What do you think this is?"

I stride around to his side of the table, grip his upper arms and pull him to my chest. I press my lips to his and taste salt.

"No!" he says, pushing at me. "You can't—"

I kiss him again, harder. This time he doesn't resist.

It's tempting to keep going, but it's also obvious we need to talk. I let go of him and step back a pace.

Guy runs a hand through his hair and rubs his brow, as though he's just woken up. "I thought…I thought—"

"You shouldn't think so much, Guy."

He is right. I should not have left him on his own as often as I have.

"Just give me some time. I'll make it right with the gang, I promise."

"No!" His renewed vehemence surprises me. "You can't make it right. This will never be right, at least not in their eyes. And if your people find out, you could lose everything. And if that happens then you won't want me anymore. Because it's them who make you who you are – not me."

"In time—"

"In time what?" he scoffs. "Answer me this then. If I asked you to come away with me—"

"Where?"

"I don't know. France. Anywhere. Would you come?"

I look at the table and notice we have pork for the third day running.

"I thought so," he says.

"Guy, I—"

"Forget it!"

He snatches up the box, whirls around and bounds up the stairs.

* * *

I find him sitting on the bed, the box resting on his thighs.

"Not very original, was it?" I say.

"Sorry?"

I sit next to him, our legs touching.

"Under the bed?"

"Oh. No. Not very." His lips twitch, on the edge of a smile. "It's just—"

"What?"

"It's just, I'm not used to anyone caring about me."

"Marian cared."

"I know."

I think he would like to talk. I wish I could help, but talking is, as Much is so fond of pointing out, not one of my strengths.

We sit in the gathering gloom and I watch as he fiddles with the box's clasp, opening and shutting the lid.

If only it were possible to put all our hurts in that box, I would lock them in there. And then I would hurl the box out the window, as far as Locksley pond, where it would sink without a trace.

"Here."

Guy places the box on my lap.

"What—"

"For the poor," he says.

* * *

Downstairs, I snuff out the lit candles and rake over the fire. After a quick bite of bread and a mouthful of wine, I return to the bedchamber.

Guy is lying face down on the bed. He is still dressed, apart from his boots, which sit neatly together, by his side of the bed.

"Guy?"

I can't be sure, but I think he is crying.

I pull off my waterlogged boot and my wet stocking and lie next to Guy. I press into his cold, leather doublet and, when he doesn't push me away, I stroke his hair.

"I will make things right, Guy. Trust me."

"I do trust you, Robin."

His breathing settles, calms. I put my arm around him and lay my ringed hand on the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Guy sighs, takes my hand in his, and laces our fingers together.

I don't know why, but this simple form of embrace feels like one of the nicest things we've done.

That's when I think I might be falling in love with him.


	9. A Ride in the Forest

**A Ride in the Forest**

Filthy dog. Rope him up. Now!

"Robin?"

Ignore it. I have to keep running, mustn't stop. But where are the dogs? It's too dark. I can't see them.

My back smacks into something hard, knocking the breath out of me.

"Robin?"

A man's voice, louder this time. Close to my ear.

Something is tugging on my shirtsleeve: man or beast? My hand tightens around the hilt of my knife. Armed, I still have a chance.

I raise my head, expecting to look into the accusatory face of one of my pursuers.

Instead, I find Guy, leaning over me, his fingers clutching my wrist. He is wearing his usual black leathers, although, for some reason, I think that he shouldn't be. Frantically, I turn my head this way and that. There are no dogs, and no ropes. I'm in Locksley. It's night, or maybe morning, I'm not sure which, and we are in bed. Except that I'm not. I'm on the floor, and my right foot feels as if there's a lead weight attached to it and, when I finally work out where my foot is, I see it is devoid of both stocking and boot.

"Guy?"

"You were dreaming," he says.

My heart is thudding painfully against my ribcage. I feel sick. Resting my forehead on the edge of the bed, I close my eyes, to make it dark. But the dream is still there – as bright as day.

We are running, Guy and me. We are being chased through the corridors of Nottingham Castle. Racing to catch us are Prince John, his guards, the gang, even King Richard himself. Blades are drawn, arrows aimed. We chase up to the battlements. We are holding hands. I'm pulling Guy or he's pulling me – it keeps changing. Men are coming at us from every direction. There is nowhere to run. We exchange a look. This is the end and we know it. We kiss - desperately, passionately. Still holding hands – we jump. Our bodies smack onto the hard cobbles and are broken. Yet, I am alive. I do not die. Because arrows can bounce off me. But my lover, my confidant, my Guy – he is dead, the back of his head smashed like an egg. Blood, as bright as holly berries, seeps along the cracks in the cobbles. Guy's hair is slick with it. He is on his back. His eyes are wide open, staring at the bluest of skies, but they will never see me again.

"Are you all right?" Guy says, cupping a hand under my chin.

He brushes my cheek with his thumb. Holding his hand to the thin strip of daylight filtering through the broken shutter, I can make out the pad of his thumb, glistening, and realise I must have been crying in my sleep.

I wonder where my breeches have gone – the ones that were blocking the gap in the shutter – and guess they must be lying beneath the window, in the snow.

"Was it—"

I think Guy is about to say Marian, but he changes his mind. Instead, he says, "Do you always sleep with a dagger under your pillow?"

"What?"

I look at the knife, still clutched in my right hand.

"Sorry. Force of habit."

Guy smiles thinly, and lifts his own pillow. A small, but deadly looking, blade lies on the sheet. Carefully, he prises the knife from my hand and lays it on the bedside table.

"You know, we'd best take care," he says. "We wouldn't want to accidentally kill one another in the night."

Guy is being kind. He is also afraid, because my nightmare reminds him of his own private hell.

"No," I say. My right foot is tingling painfully; I ease myself back onto the bed and knead it vigorously. "And besides, I can think of better things to do."

I don't know why I said that. I want nothing more than to lie down and sleep. I feel incredibly tired, as though I haven't slept at all, as though I've spent the whole night running.

Guy smiles, heartened to find the Robin he lives with. But the real Robin, the scared, confused and desperate Robin, knows better.

I allow Guy to pull my sweat-soaked shirt over my head. His hands move to my belt and I watch with almost detached interest as he works the buckle.

"You'll have to—"

"I'll do it," I tell him.

He nods and slips off the bed.

I'm not sure anything is going to happen. It's too cold, and I'm still too caught up in my nightmare. But it might help me forget, and I also think Guy will be disappointed if I don't. After all, this is what being in love with someone is about. It's about not letting them down.

Guy is scrabbling around on the floor.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

I can still see the men, with their ropes, and their dogs. I can still see the battlements, and the blood creeping along the cracks in the cobbles.

"Looking for the jar."

"Leave it," I tell him.

"I'm not sure that—"

Whatever he says next is lost, as he disappears under the bed. I lean over to take a look. All I can see are ankles and very white feet.

"Guy, it doesn't matter."

I don't want sex, not now. Sex is supposed to make you happy and I'm not sure that I should, or even can, be. I'm not even sure where I should be: here, half-dressed, waiting to be molested by the man who killed my wife, or out in the cold, snowy forest, with my friends.

Before last night I was happy, when I finally admitted that I'd lusted after Guy for a long time, and when I thought that's all this was. But falling in love. What the hell is that all about? It can't be. It just can't. Perhaps I'd just confused lust with love. Then I remember the Guy of yesterday. As far back as I can remember, I've never seen him happy. But yesterday, when he realised that I meant it when I said that I didn't want anything else in my life if it didn't include him, then I think I saw happy, in his eyes and in the way he held himself. Would I rip that from him, simply because my friends tell me this is wrong?

With a huff of annoyance, Guy works his way out from under the bed.

He stares at me, long and hard.

"Robin. We don't have to—"

"Yes," I tell him. "We do."

We don't, of course. I don't. But my stubborn anger over the gang's unwillingness to give Guy a chance only adds fuel to my determination to prove our togetherness.

Guy brushes my sleep-tousled hair away from my eyes. I realise, if I don't deal with it soon, it'll grow as long as his. Perhaps I should ask Much to cut it. I can picture him now, fussing over each and every lock. And then he takes the cutters and starts gouging my forehead. And I let him. I sit, enduring the agony, the blood running into my eyes, until he is finished. He will wipe both the cutters and his hands on his apron, and then he will find something to show my reflection, so I can admire his bloody handiwork. And I will think, but Much can't write, let alone spell. Yet the words 'traitor' and 'sodomite' are clearly etched on my forehead - perfectly formed letters, with no misspellings.

"There," Much will say. "You're done."

What he means is: you're done for.

I don't care. I've stopped caring about a lot of things lately. I wonder when I will start caring again, when something will rekindle the lust for life that I lost after Marian died.

Guy is regarding me, intently.

And then I remember. Last night I was falling in love with him, wasn't I? I'm an idiot. I can't fall in love with Guy of Gisborne. It will ruin everything.

"Robin? What is it?"

"Nothing."

I sit quietly, my arms hanging loose at my sides.

Guy sighs. His warm hands lightly brush the hollows on my chest and bump over my ribs.

Still, I sit, motionless.

Ignoring my obvious reluctance, Guy strokes my face and my neck. He runs his hands down the length of my arms. He traces my scars, as if he might have the power to heal.

I do want this. And I do want him.

Without her, I became rootless. He pulls me back, tends to me, and keeps me alive.

I look at Guy's face. There are dark shadows under his eyes from too many sleepless nights. His blue eyes glitter, both from lack of sleep, and from understanding. He knows. He knows that I suffer, although I think he no longer knows why.

He kisses me, softly. I taste him. It's a taste I've come to know and to crave. I take hold of his hand and guide it downwards. No more dwelling on what might or might not be. I want his touch. And, despite my earlier misgivings, I harden.

_Dog. Filthy._

Guy's hand rubs, gently but insistently, on the fabric swell of my breeches, while I struggle with my buckle, all fingers and thumbs.

It happens quickly. One moment I'm fumbling with my belt, and the next, I'm clutching onto Guy, and there's no time to do more than register the warm wetness slipping down my thighs, and the fact that my only other pair of breeches are lying outside in the snow.

I lean into Guy, gripping his shoulders, as my tremors lessen and then still.

"Sorry," I whisper.

Guy nudges my head away from his neck, until we are face to face. His roguish grin tells me he is not sorry, he's delighted. Delighted it is so easy, I am so easy. All the times he tried, and failed, to ensnare me, and all it takes is this. He is also excited, as ready as I am - was.

He finishes unbuckling my belt.

"It won't be pretty," I tell him, halting his hand.

"I don't want pretty," he says. "I want you."

He tugs my breeches to my knees, and then works his leathers over his straining flesh. We fondle each other for a short while, until I can feel Guy shaking with the effort of keeping himself in check, doubtless desiring a more satisfactory conclusion to his want than my own tawdry capitulation.

I shuffle around and offer Guy my back.

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yes. Very."

Leaning forwards, I bury my face in the pillow. I imagine a bloody crimson imprint, the words traitor and sodomite clearing delineated on the white linen, and wonder if I press my nose and mouth long and hard enough into the pillow, might I suffocate?

"Are you ready?" Guy asks.

I'm not sure why he's being so polite about it. I don't want nice. I don't want kind. I want darkness, and sin, and death.

"Do your worst," I say.

"Really?"

"Really."

He doesn't need the jar. A hand in my soiled breeches, and along my thighs, and Guy has the means. He inhales, deeply. I remember to relax. A rush of breath, and he's in.

Mostly, Guy says very little when we have sex; very occasionally, like the first time he fucked me, he is talkative.

This morning he is quiet.

He clamps his hands on my sides, his breaths growing more and more rapid as he thrusts into me. I brace my hands on the headboard, while the bed protests as we test its limitations. Guy tenses. I open my eyes, turn my head, and notice a long, dark hair, lying on the pillow. I think of Marian. Every grunt we make, every thrust, every groan – a betrayal of her memory.

"Robin," Guy moans.

He slams into me, his hands crushing my ribcage, while another trickle of spent lust warms my exposed flesh. Encircling me with his arms, we collapse onto the sheets. Once again, I feel his beautiful weight on top of me, and I know this has nothing to do with Marian, not anymore.

Lust has become love.

Now what the hell am I supposed to do?

Because all I know of love is that it leads to heartache, and I'm not sure that I can do it again.

* * *

We sit crossed legged on the bed, facing each other. I still can't understand why this feels right, as though we were always meant to be.

I lean towards Guy, until our foreheads touch.

"This shouldn't be," I say.

"I know," he replies.

"What would Marian—"

I can't. There's no room for Marian in this bed.

"It's all right," he says.

I squeeze my eyes shut, ball my fists, willing the moment to pass.

Guy moves away. I hear a splash, over by the washstand, followed by the creak and thud of the window shutters.

I open my eyes. The sky is a strange colour – orange and violet-grey.

I look down and stare at the mess we've made on the bed. Spread on the sheets are the children I could have had with Marian, and never will.

Guy walks carefully around the room, picking up clothes and making them into neat piles.

Furious and frightened, I rip the sheet from the bed.

"Don't worry about it," Guy says.

He doesn't mean the sheets.

* * *

"Here, wear this."

I'm sitting on the floor, the soiled bed linen scrunched in my lap. I take a steadying breath, and look up in time to catch the scarf Guy tosses me.

"What? Just this?"

"Idiot," Guy smiles.

His smiles make all the difference. For them alone, I will pull myself together.

Reaching for my clothes, I tell him, "Seriously, though, black's not really my colour."

"It is as of now," he says, indicating my neck.

I touch my fingers to the bruised skin where he bit me.

"Don't worry," I say. "I'll tell the gang the horse did it."

"What horse?"

"The one you're going riding on."

"What do you mean, riding?"

"I'm not going to see the gang today, Guy. And you're not staying in this house. We're going riding."

"Are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Unless you have a better one?"

He pretends to think.

"We've just done that," I tell him.

"Still, practice makes perfect."

Guy nods pointedly at my breeches, the pair lying crumpled on the floor, the pair I'm contemplating wearing, rather than the ones half buried in the snow.

"Well, even Robin Hood is allowed to be less than perfect," I say, defensively.

"Oh, believe me. You're definitely less than perfection, Robin."

Something tells me this pleases Guy greatly.

I smile, concede defeat. I step into my soiled breeches, re-thread my belt and cast about for my boots.

"They're under the bed," Guy says.

I lower myself to the floor and slide under the bed. I find the wooden box, still full of coins. I also find the jar.

As I resurface, Guy holds out a hand, palm up, indicating that he wants the jar.

"Guy, we're going riding, not—"

"It's for the horses." Guy whips up a cautioning hand. "And that doesn't require one of your childish witticisms."

"Did I say anything?"

"You don't have to."

I watch as he dresses, just because I can. Always, he puts things on in the same order. I smile, and wonder what would happen if I hid his belt.

* * *

Wrapped warmly against the cold and snow, we head for the stables.

"I didn't think we had any horses, Robin," Guy says.

"We do now."

"Where did you get them from?"

"Where do you think? I stole them of course. I'm an outlaw, remember?"

"I remember."

"So, which one do you want?" I ask.

Guy eyes the two sleek-coated and saddled palfreys.

"That one." He points to the grey. I might have known he'd go for the less skittish of the two.

"Fair enough." I swing into the bay's saddle.

"You planned this?" he asks.

"Yes."

"When?"

"After our—"

"Our what?"

"Our disagreement. Yesterday."

"Oh."

Guy mounts, and yanks his horse's reins, clearly unhappy at the reminder of how close we came to blows.

The two fine palfreys – courtesy of Prince John's poorly guarded stables – can't wait to be off. Even so, we keep our leaving of Locksley village quiet and careful, reining in our straining mounts. It is early, and there are few villagers about, but the less people who know our movements the better.

However, once clear of the village we give our horses the freedom they have been whinnying for and gallop up the snowy hill, towards open countryside.

"Where to?" Guy rasps.

I point, and urge the bay on.

"The forest?" Guy shouts after me.

"Why not?"

"Because I hate the forest, that's why."

"Don't worry. We're not going to the camp."

"The camp I can do. It's all those bloody trees I hate."

"Real nature guy, aren't you," I laugh.

Guy shouts something obscene and I glance back, amused rather than fearful.

Without warning, my horse swerves, I'm not sure why. Perhaps I momentarily relaxed the reins, or perhaps there was some obstacle, half-hidden by the snow. Either way, it is enough to unsaddle me.

The snow is deep, and cold, and not as soft as it looks.

Thankfully, the bay is well trained and comes to a halt some short distance away.

Guy pulls his horse to a working trot, his grin spreading wider and wider, as he approaches me.

And I can see it. I can see what it was that Marian must have seen in him, or at least must have known was there, if only one could find the right key to unlock it. If all it takes is a tumble in the snow to reveal this side of Guy, then I'll be happy to fall off my horse a hundred times over.

"All right?" Guy asks, trying, but failing, to adopt a serious expression.

"I haven't ridden for a while," I offer.

Guy watches as I walk to my mount.

"I'm surprised you can ride at all this morning," he calls.

"I'm tougher than I look," I retort.

"You must be."

As if to prove my point, I thump onto the bay's saddle and whack my boots into the animal's flanks, heedless to its nervous temperament. Ahead, is a fallen tree. The bay clears it easily and, slowing, I turn around and grin at Guy.

Despite Guy's protestations, I've decided we are going to the forest. We won't go near the camp, I can do without the gang's accusatory looks today, but there are plenty of routes we can follow, and who knows, perhaps during a companionable ride, Guy will overcome his dislike of my favourite stomping ground.

"I didn't know this was a competition," Guy shouts. The grey clears the tree with room to spare, and Guy pats its neck and smiles in satisfaction.

"Who's competing?" I ask.

"You are."

Guy pulls up alongside me.

"Sorry," I say. "It won't happen again."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

Slowing to a gentle canter we head towards Sherwood Forest.

Guy's eyes dart this way and that.

"Relax," I tell him. "The only real threat in the forest used to be me."

Guy shoots me a look, as if to say, look at you, being the big _I am_ again. What he means is don't forget there could be guards about, guards angry at having been thwarted by an archer, a diminutive gang, and a long-limbed, doe-eyed girl.

The forest is quiet, and white, and beautiful.

"This way," I tell him.

We pass the kissing tree. I nearly say something to Guy, but change my mind. I am prepared to share my body, my hopes, even my dreams – but not the memories I have of this one particular spot. This will always be our place – Marian's and mine. I need to keep something of her, just for me.

Guy snaps his fingers in front of my face, breaking my reverie.

"I know why you do it," he says.

"Do what?"

"All this helping the poor and the needy."

"Oh?"

"Don't get me wrong, Robin. You do care about those people, you do have a heart, you wouldn't be with me if you didn't. But it's more than that, isn't it? You like...no, you crave, the adoration, the looks they give you when you perform some good and charitable deed. I've seen it. It makes you feel—"

He crinkles his brow.

"Powerful," I suggest.

"Yes. Powerful. Don't deny it."

"I'm not. I'm only human after all, and we all have our weaknesses, Guy."

"And am I, one of those weaknesses?"

He guides the grey closer to the bay, until our legs are touching.

"Most definitely," I say.

"Is that why you're with me then – a weakness? Is that the answer to all this?"

"It's the only one I'm giving, Guy, so let's just leave it at that shall we."

"You'll leave me," he mumbles. "When the thrill has worn off, you'll leave me."

"How can you say that?"

"Because I know. But I'm going to do everything I can to keep you. I will help you oust Prince John. I will put myself on the line for your precious king, for what you believe in. And maybe, just maybe, I'll win you in the process."

"You've already won me, you fool."

"Then I'll make sure I keep you. I'll be your slave, your whipping boy, hell, you can fuck me ten times a night for all I—"

"Ten times," I laugh. "Even I'm not that good."

"Be serious, can't you."

"I am being serious."

"What is it really?" Guy asks doggedly. "And why me, of all people?"

"I think you know why."

"Tell me."

"Look. I like lying next to you. I like feeling your warmth. I like hearing you breathing beside me. I like…I like waking up next to someone."

"You could have all that with a pet dog."

"You know what I mean, Guy."

I quieten my horse, lean across, and kiss Guy's icy lips. He puts a steadying arm around me, and explores my mouth with his warm tongue. Our hot breaths plume white in the frosty air.

"Let's go back to Locksley," Guy murmurs.

I nod, and wheel my horse around.

Then I hear it, the jangle of a bridle.

"Guy?"

He has heard it too.

"Damn," I curse.

We are being followed.


	10. Sanctuary

**Sanctuary**

"Maybe they didn't notice," Guy says.

One brief look behind me has confirmed what I already feared. Dark figures, helmeted and armed. Castle guards. The showy insignia emblazoned on their breastplates proclaiming that these are the best of the best.

"Christ, Guy," I growl savagely. "If we'd been any closer, you'd have been in my bloody saddle. I think they noticed."

I whack my boots on my horse's flanks. The bay whinnies in protest, but complies, mouth snapping at the bit as I urge it into a headlong gallop. Guy rides beside me, his mass of dark hair whipping against his leathered back, his face grim and determined.

We are heading towards thicker forest, although it will be of little use, bare as the trees are. Our only hope is to outrun, or in this case, out-gallop our pursuers.

"How many?" Guy asks.

I glance behind me again. For the moment, the guards are out of sight. "I don't know. About nine or ten."

I didn't expect this. But I should have. The lock-down at the castle is a clear indication that something untoward is happening, or is about to happen, in Nottingham. I should have taken more care. My foolhardiness has put both Guy and myself in danger, not to mention the gang, if they are about the forest.

"Where are we going, Robin?"

"Not Locksley and not the camp."

I'm thinking about my chances with my bow, coupled with Guy's help, but I know the odds are too great.

"Split up," I shout.

"No!"

"Yes. We'll stand a better chance. I'll meet you."

"Where?"

"At the gully."

"But we can't just—"

Guy clamps his mouth, the unmistakeable crack and thud of snapping branches and pounding hooves quelling any further protest.

"And Guy?"

"What?"

"Don't get caught," I say.

"Don't you," he returns.

With a parting look of regret, Guy peels off and, after a final glance behind me, I head in the opposite direction.

* * *

I know this forest well, but the snow has obliterated once familiar paths and I can't be sure of my bearings. The only thing I am confident of is that I'm heading away from the direction of the camp.

I risk another fleeting look behind me. It appears the guards have fallen for our device and have split into two groups, better odds should I decide to make a stand.

I bend low over the bay's neck, avoiding treacherous branches, concentrating on weaving between the trees and keeping my seat.

Only last night I dreamt of being chased. And here we are, the two of us, running for our lives. Except we are not on foot, nor chasing through Nottingham castle, nor holding hands, and, if this is to be the end, there will be no last kiss either. We will die separately, alone but for the satisfied grins of our pursuers.

I hear shouts, and barks of command, growing nearer; the chink and clank of mail and sword, of bridle and bit.

Yanking the reins, I force the bay into a sharp turn, my thighs gripping the saddle in an effort to stay on.

I know where I am now.

Everything is a choice, Marian had said as, battered and bloody, I slumped against a tree - everything we do.

Today, I have another choice to make: fight or flight?

The bay is bred for endurance and can go for ages yet. But, from what I could tell, the guards are also on decent mounts and, if it all comes down to horseflesh, it's hard to say who'll last the distance.

If the guards have made an even split there should be only four or five of them on my tail. But it's already become obvious my bow will be of little or no use. These guards are wearing all manner of protective clothing. Only an arrow in their more vulnerable necks might offer me any chance of success. And I will have to do it several times over. That leaves my sword. Good though I am, there is no way in hell I can fight off what in all likelihood is a highly trained unit of men. And I still haven't tested my injured arm in a full-on sword fight. No. The only option seems to be to keep riding and evade capture.

I turn my head, stare in dismay at the pristine snow churned up by my horse's hoofs and berate myself for being an idiot. I might just as well put up a sign saying 'Robin Hood went this way'.

It's time to disappear.

* * *

I smack the bay's rump as hard as I possibly can and leap aside, anxious to avoid flying hoofs and snow. My earlier tumble had already proved the horse to be a well disciplined, if somewhat cantankerous, beast. And it's no good me planning on sending the guards off on a wild goose chase if the damned animal is going to come to a halt some few paces from where I'm stood.

My arms are stiff and sore, both from the cold and from being unused to riding at full pelt.

I tear off my gloves; I need the feel of the bow and arrow to be certain of a perfect line. I breathe in, and out, draw back the bowstring and take aim. The bay gives another whinny of protest as the loosed arrow grazes its hindquarters, almost certainly I have drawn blood.

I watch as my horse hurtles down the narrow forest path and disappears from view, and there is no time to lament its loss or worry that I might have made the wrong decision.

Stuffing my discarded gloves in my belt, and shouldering my bow, I pause to listen.

The guards are getting closer.

The gully is some twenty paces or so behind me. I start to work backwards, swishing a twiggy branch across my all-too-obvious boot tracks. It's not a perfect disguise, but at a quick glance it might just do the trick.

At the gully's edge, I fling the branch away. I turn and look down. It's deeper than I remember, certainly from this side. But I can hear the horses and the men, and there's no time to find an easier passage.

I jump.

* * *

My first thought is that this will muck up our kissing sessions. Idiotic, I know, considering my rather perilous situation.

Remembering to bend my knees, I made a perfect landing. Shame I didn't remember to keep my mouth shut. Shame I didn't remember that this morning, when I suggested going riding.

Heart thumping, I press into the mud-slicked gully-wall, while the warm, iron-salt taste of blood fills my mouth where I bit my tongue. Guy will enjoy this one nearly as much as my earlier tumble in the snow. That's if he makes it. That's if he can find our hiding place.

Holding perfectly still, I wait for the guards to detect my hastily concocted ruse or for the stupid horse to betray me.

An authoritative shout of "this way" has me swiftly nocking an arrow, desperately wondering which side they will approach from or, worse still, whether I might be surrounded on all sides. The words sitting and duck come to mind.

I ease the bowstring back, ready.

Heartbeat after heartbeat, I wait for the helmeted faces and their accompanying chortles of glee.

Nothing.

I spit blood, lower my bow, and step away from the concealment of the gully-wall.

For my pains, all I am left with is aching arms, a blood-filled mouth and an audacious red-breasted bird – my namesake – cocking its tiny head at me.

It's all right for you, I think, watching the tiny robin, you can fly away, while this particular Robin is trapped.

A branch cracks and the robin flits away. I whirl around, re-nocking my arrow. No amused faces appear and no exultations of success ring out. I lower my bow, guessing it to have been another forest creature, or perhaps just weight of snow.

Leaning against the muddy wall I ask myself if this is this what I want, to always be jumping at shadows, whether real or imaginary. Because in order to keep our secret, to keep Guy and me safe, I know we will always have to be one step ahead of the shadows.

Time passes. The weak winter sun gives way to dusk. I stamp my feet and flap my arms in an effort to keep warm. I pull off my glove and probe my split tongue. My finger comes away bloody. I scoop up some snow and let it sit in my mouth, hoping it will staunch both the bleeding and the annoying throb and sting.

And I wait.

I wait for Guy.

* * *

Not so long ago, sheltering from the chill winter wind, Guy and me had sat in this secluded spot, wishing only for a quiet moment, a chance to be alone, without the Tanners, Matildas or Muches of this world barging in on us. Not to do anything, just to talk, to try and understand.

In truth, we did very little talking; we had no idea what to say to one another. In one fateful moment on my part, a tentative friendship had ended in a lustful kiss. It hardly seemed possible.

For a short while we had simply sat, each waiting for the other to speak, until a distant whoop from Allan reminded us that we were not the only ones in the forest.

There were a few faltering admittances, a few mangled explanations as to why we had ended up in each other's arms, but nothing that could possibly justify the magnitude of what we had just done.

Finally, it had grown so painfully embarrassing that I decided to end it by kissing Guy, long and hard. We had broken apart, breathless, laughing awkwardly, and I said that we ought to get back to the gang because they'd be wondering what was taking us so long. And Guy had given me a look, and I'd almost caved in there and then.

We could dress it up any way we liked. Sooner or later, Guy and me were going to fuck.

* * *

I am hungry. I think of Locksley: the warm fire, the table Guy always sets for us, and the wine he hands me the moment I walk in the door. I don't know if he thinks this will bring about our coupling quicker or whether he just wants the wine for himself and is being polite. Either way, I don't need it. I'm always ready for him, with or without the drink.

I wonder about climbing out of my hiding place and taking my chances on foot. I am not happy with the idea of walking through the forest in the near-dark, but I know if I stay in this hole much longer it's quite likely I'll end up freezing to death.

As if to add insult to injury, it is snowing again, and I have this absurd image of me being buried, and of no one finding me until the snow melts, by which time I will be no more than a pile of bones, identifiable only by my tag and my weapons. And around my skeletal finger they'll find a bulky silver ring, evidence of the traitorous relationship that was to prove my undoing.

I pull off my glove and feel a perverse kind of joy that the ring is still there.

I wonder why Guy is taking so long. I want to believe it's because he's lost his way, but realistically I have to consider the more likely alternative: Guy has been caught. Even now, he could be in the castle, imprisoned in the dungeons, stripped of his leathers, his wrists clamped in irons. And if that is the case, something tells me I will be hard-pressed to persuade the gang to join me in any rescue attempt.

A horse's soft whinny has me hurriedly flattening myself against the gully-wall.

I listen as the guard dismounts and catch the unmistakeable metallic slide of a sword being pulled from its sheath.

I make to unsheathe my own blade, change my mind, and nock an arrow.

The horse stamps its feet, masking the guard's movement.

I step away from the muddy wall's scant protection, and target a spot just above gully's lip, hoping I have judged it correctly.

A pale face, framed by a mass of long, dark hair, peeks over the edge of my hiding place.

"Robin?"

"You fucker, Guy." I lower my bow. "Next time, announce yourself. I could have bloody well killed you."

Guy grins, straightens up, and makes his way around to the other side of our meeting place. He carefully picks his way down the root-tangled slope and, when he considers it safe, jumps the final small measure to land just in front of me.

"What's with the sword, anyway?" I ask, mildly irritated that he has made it without so much as a scratch.

"I had to be careful, Robin. For all I knew they had found you hiding here and they might well have been laying in wait for me."

"You kept the horse?" I say.

I don't mean to sound cross, but I will admit to being grudgingly impressed that Guy not only managed to evade the guards, but also that he kept hold of the grey.

"I thought it might come in useful for our ride back to Locksley," he says. "What happened to yours? Dumped you again?"

"No. It refused to make the jump." I indicate my descent.

"I was only asking."

I lean on my bow and regard him.

What?" he says.

"How did you get away?"

"I'm not the incompetent fool everyone makes me out to be, Robin."

"Did I say that?"

"You don't have to. And anyway," he says, "they gave up."

"Gave up?"

"They stopped chasing me. God knows why. Perhaps you're the only one they're interested in."

"Well, as you can see, they didn't get me either."

"So, shall we go home?"

"No. We're not going back to Locksley, at least, not tonight. It's too dangerous. If there are guards in the forest, it's quite likely they're at the village too. We can't take the risk."

"Then where—"

"The camp."

"We can't. I can't."

"Yes, we can. For God's sake, Guy. I'm their leader, and it's my bloody camp as much as theirs. And besides, it's closer than Locksley, and I'm freezing."

Guy considers. "All right."

"Good. Come on then."

I shoulder my bow and head towards Guy's earlier passage.

Guy grabs hold of my arm.

"What?" I ask.

It is close to darkness and I'm anxious to reach the camp while I can still see a hand in front of me.

"We won't be able to—"

"What?" I ask.

"In the camp, we won't be able to, you know."

"Is that all you can think about?"

"Huh! You're a fine one to talk." Guy pushes me away and I think the matter settled, until he grabs my arm again.

"Now what?" I ask.

"One for the road?"

"What?"

Guy nips the finger end of his glove with his teeth and slides it from his hand. He flexes his bared hand and slips it between the folds of my cloak.

"What are you doing?"

"You did say you were cold, Robin."

"You'll have a hard job warming that up, Guy."

"Just a thought," he says. He withdraws his hand and starts pulling on his glove.

"On the other hand." I grab hold of his wrist and steer his arm in the direction it had previously been headed. "Just one thing," I warn.

Guy is tugging at my belt.

"What?"

"No tongues. Only, I cut my mouth."

"How did—"

"Don't ask, all right."

Guy smirks and resumes his battle to get into my breeches.

"Robin, can't you—"

"I'm not taking anything off," I tell him. "It's too damn cold."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm willing to take the consequences."

"Fair enough," he replies, a wicked grin on his face.

Guy's hand finally worms its way into my breeches. The instant he touches me I'm undone. I take a step backwards, and again, until my back hits the gully-wall.

"You'll take the consequences," Guy murmurs into my ear.

"Yes."

I lean against the cold, damp mud, close my eyes, and wonder what Guy truly thinks of me.

* * *

"No," John growls.

This is the first time I've seen John since I announced my intention to reside at Locksley, with Guy. He looks tired, shrunken. His grizzled hair is even more unkempt, if that's possible, and I wonder where he's been spending his time whenever I've been at the camp.

"Keep going," I tell Guy.

He clicks the grey forwards.

"What's this then?" Allan asks. He is slouching against a tree, arms folded, a wry look of amusement on his face. "New economy-drive in the Lords' manor – one horse between two?"

I am uncomfortably aware of my own arms, still clutched around Guy's waist but, not wishing to draw further attention to myself, resolutely leave them where they are.

"Robin?" Guy queries.

"It's all right," I assure him.

Guy guides the grey around the campfire and through the nearby stacks of logs and kindling.

John grunts and snatches up his staff.

Much glances fearfully at John, turns to his cooking, picks up a wooden spoon, stares at it, puts it down and picks up a large, flat-bottomed pan instead. He holds the pan aloft, and I'm not sure if he's silently asking me if I want something to eat, or if he's about to hurl it at Guy.

"Much?"

Much looks at the pan, and then, ridiculously, tries to hide it behind his back.

I almost smile, but John's hostile glare has me thinking that now is not the time.

"Stop here," I whisper into Guy's left ear.

He reins in the grey and I let go Guy's cold, leather doublet and swing to the ground.

I roll my stiff shoulders a couple of times and turn to the gang.

"We need to stay here tonight," I tell John.

"Not him," John says, pointing his staff at Guy.

"Yes. Him as well. He's one of us now. The plan was always for Guy to help us, or have you conveniently forgotten that?"

"The plan was to use him as a spy, not to be part of the gang."

"Well he's with me, so that makes him part of this gang. And either he stays or I leave – for good."

I hear the soft, leather-creak of Guy dismounting. He comes and stands next to me, our arms touching, and I'm sorely tempted to take hold of his hand and rub our togetherness in their stupid, judgmental faces.

But my emotive declaration about leaving is not what I had planned.

John has already made his feelings plain. Much just wants the old me back, wants things to be the way they were. I don't know about Allan. He could go either way. They wanted me to choose. Now I am asking them to make that decision.

"What happened?" Allan wants facts, not emotional outpourings.

Glad of the reprieve, however temporary, I turn to the only member of the gang who appears comfortable with Guy's presence. I think perhaps Allan once being 'Guy's man' might be the reason.

"There were guards," I explain. "In the forest. Guy and I were out riding when they came upon us."

Allan's eyebrows shoot up.

"Riding horses, Allan," I elaborate, although I can hardly be bothered. No matter what I say they are always going to think the worse of me.

Arms held out in entreaty, I take a couple of steps towards John, determined to appeal to his better nature. Immediately, I feel the telltale catch of my 'willing to take the consequences' on my inner thigh and think perhaps they are right to think the worse after all.

John shakes his head and backs away.

"And?" Allan presses.

I let my arms fall.

"Well, I can't be sure, Allan, but it might have come to their attention that Guy and I weren't exactly at each other's throats, which means Guy's going to the castle is out of the question now."

I wasn't going to mention the fact that I wasn't letting him go in any case.

"How many were there?" Allan asks.

"About nine or ten."

Allan and John exchange a brief look.

"Allan?"

"I don't know, Robin. It's been as quiet as a grave this past week or so. But I went to Nottingham today, it being market day an' all, and there's definitely something weird happening in the castle."

I flick my eyes at each of the gang in turn.

"We need to go to Nottingham," I tell them. "We need to find out what John's up to."

"We are _not_ going to Nottingham," John thunders. "And he is _not_ staying here, not tonight, not ever."

Unable to appease John, I turn to Much.

"Oh, no you don't," he says, shaking his head vehemently. "You're always saying I talk a load of rot, so, I'm not talking."

"What?" Allan laughs. "Never again?"

"Jigger off, Allan. You know what I mean."

"Please, Much," I implore. "I want to know what you think."

"About what?"

"About Guy and me staying here. At least until we find out what's going on in Nottingham?"

"You're asking me? You're asking me, what I think?"

"Yes."

"Well, that'll be a first."

"Much, please. Tell me. I'm listening."

"And that'll also be a first. Although the other thing you said was a first, which makes this a second, but—"

"Much," I warn. "Just tell me."

Much carefully places the heavy pan next to the wooden spoon and, after a moment's deliberation, defiantly meets my eye.

"You want to know what I think, Robin. Well, I'll tell you, shall I. What I think is that this is wrong. Everything is wrong. That you should be here, in the camp, making those idiotic plans of yours to outwit the Sheriff, except that he's dead, of course. And that Marian should be here, except that she's…" He swallows, starts again. "And that Djaq and Will should be here. And that one day I will wake up and find that this has all been a bad dream and you'll be peppering the trees with arrows and working out how to get to Nottingham Fayre, and Will will be carving some fancy head or something, and Djaq will be mixing some weird paste and…and…"

I wait, patiently.

"It's not a dream, is it?" he says, sadly. "And you're not coming back, are you?"

"I'd like to. If you'll have me."

Allan sidles up to John and places a placatory hand on his arm. "How about it, eh, John?"

John huffs and shrugs Allan away. With slow deliberation he looks Guy up and down.

"You may have been taken in by his _charms_, Robin, but not me. I will never forgive him for what he's done."

"John, I—"

"Listen," Guy interrupts. "You don't have to forgive me. You don't even have to like me. But, like it or not, I'm with Robin now, and that makes us on the same side."

"No! I will never be on your side, you murdering scum. You killed a defenceless woman, you—"

"Defenceless!" Guy's hand leaps to his sword's hilt.

"Guy," I warn.

John bares his teeth.

Now I see what this is about. It's about Marian. I always knew John cared for her, and it was never more obvious than after Marian's father, Edward, was killed. I did my best but, big, quiet, gentle John, he was the one who had the right words when it counted, not me.

Guy's upper lip curls.

John's great hands tighten around his staff. "Murderer!" he roars, charging towards Guy.

Guy pulls his sword.

"Guy. No!" I shout. I whip up my bow, not quite sure what I'm going to do.

John is fast, and murderous, and Guy hesitates at my outcry. John's staff smacks into Guy's head. Guy flings up his arms, his sword flying from his grasp. Clutching his head, he staggers backwards and crashes to the ground.

"John!"

Guy lies, half-buried in the snow, blood oozing from an ugly gash on his forehead.

John throws his staff aside and towers over Guy, fist drawn back.

"John. Stop. Now!"

John pauses, looks up, and sees my arrow pointed at him.

"Robin. You wouldn't?"

"Try me." Unwaveringly, I aim the arrow at John's midriff.

Shaking his head in disbelief, John slowly backs away from Guy.

I drop my bow and crouch next to Guy. Blood is trickling down the side of his head, staining the snow pink.

"Guy? Can you hear me?"

I gently lift Guy's head. His hair is wet, with bits of snow sticking to it. Blood runs over and under my fingers and my nightmare of yesterday, of Guy lying crushed and broken on the cobbles, smashes into me, and, for a moment, I can hardly breathe.

Guy's eyelids flicker.

"Guy?"

He blinks a few times, finally resting dazed blue eyes on my face.

"Robin?"

"It's all right. You're all right." I eye the cut on Guy's forehead. "Much," I yell. "Get me some water and a cloth."

"I...er—"

"Now!"

"Er...yes...right."

I help Guy sit. I undo my neck scarf and press it to his forehead in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

"Here." Allan kneels beside me and presses a wet cloth into my hand.

"Thank you, Allan."

Allan coughs and lightly brushes my neck. "Nasty bite you've got there, Robin."

In the midst of all this, Allan still has to have a dig.

"Want one?" Guy snaps.

"I'm not that desperate," Allan retorts.

"Go away, Allan," I mumble. I'm tired of them hating me for this. Tired of them making fun at my expense. I concentrate on wiping the blood from Guy's face.

"I can do it," Guy says, snatching the cloth. He meets my eyes and immediately realises I'm struggling.

"Don't let them get to you," he whispers.

I know he's trying to help, and this is more than I expected from him, but he doesn't understand, he doesn't need them the way I do.

I nod and stare at one of the fastenings that run the length of Guy's doublet, at the intricately tooled design, willing myself to get through whatever happens next with some kind of dignity, and without anybody being killed.

Sufficiently composed, I come to my feet.

"I meant what I said," I tell them. "Either he stays and we work this thing out – or I go."

Allan shrugs his shoulders. Much is nodding, which I think means yes to Guy staying.

"John?"

John eyes Guy and me in turn.

"He'll help us?" John says grudgingly.

"Yes."

John looks at the other two.

"It's all right by me," Allan says.

"As long as he doesn't complain about my cooking," Much adds.

I'm beginning to think this has less to do with the fact that I'm screwing Guy and more to do with letting him into our fraternity.

Sighing, John picks up his discarded staff and turns to me. "All right, Robin. But if he as much as steps on my toe, I'll have him."

"I'm not planning on going anywhere near your bloody toe," Guy hisses.

"All friends then," Allan grins.

Guy regards him, turns to me and smiles. "Could someone please help me out of this blasted snow?"

I bend down and offer him my hand.

"How's your backside?" I whisper.

"Drier than yours," he whispers back.

* * *

"Where shall I sleep?" Guy asks.

Much shuffles his feet. Allan looks as if he's about to say something and then thinks better of it and stares fixedly at the ground. John utters a mumbled, "Christ", and stomps off.

I point to Will's empty bunk at the far end of the sleeping area.

"Much. Go find Guy a blanket, will you."

Much scowls.

"Well, go on then," I tell him.

Much marches off, mumbling something about servants and masters.

"I'll say goodnight then," Guy says.

"Bit early for bed, isn't it?" Allan remarks.

"Who asked you," Guy snarls.

"Allan," I warn.

"I was just saying, that's all."

"Here." Much thrusts a blanket into Guy's hands.

"Thank you," Guy says, tiredly.

Allan walks away, whistling one of his dirty little tavern ditties. Hands on hips, Much plants himself between Guy and me, as if to say, 'over my dead body'. And I'm beginning to think we should have taken our chances with the guards and made for Locksley after all.

Of one thing I am certain; it is going to be a long, cold night.


	11. A Day in the Life

**A Day in the Life**

Much is carving little paths through the snow with a chunk of wood. I can't quite see the point of it, but he's quietly singing to himself, so it's obviously making him happy.

"Good morning," I say.

Much ignores me and, like a man on a mission, carries on pushing at the snow. The determinedly jaunty words of the song he is singing – one that I recognise – become noticeably louder, slipping off-key. Much pauses, mid-warble, and then picks up on the same discordant note, as if to say, 'what are you doing to do about it'? And he's right. There is nothing I can do about it. Much is a free man, and has been such since we returned from the Crusades. But this is the first time he's chosen to rub it in my face.

"You used to sing that in the Holy Land, when you were sweeping out our tent."

Much stops, leans on his bit of wood, and stares dejectedly at the mud-sloshed paths he's been making. "Yes, and a fat lot of good that was too," he says. He glances up at me and then looks at the piece of wood in his hands, as if he's not quite sure what it's doing there.

"Er…right," he says, dropping the wood in the snow. "Breakfast. What does he want for breakfast? Only, I wasn't counting on extra mouths, and we've no eggs and not much bacon."

"It doesn't matter, Much. Guy's really not that fussy."

"Oh. I see."

Much doesn't like it. He doesn't like that Guy and me break bread together, share conversation, intimacies.

"Can I help?" I ask. "With the food, I mean?"

Much looks at me as if I've grown two heads. He bends and picks up his piece of wood, pushes absently at the snow, then seems to remember what he's doing, flings the wood away, and stomps towards his cooking pit.

Nothing I do or say is right any more.

I watch as Much starts banging pots about. He hates it when things are turned upside down, and I guess having Guy in the camp is about as upside down as it gets, that, and the fact I lie with the man.

Determinedly, I track along one of Much's newly dug paths until I am standing in front him. Much is delving into a deep wooden box where he keeps his cooking utensils and other paraphernalia.

"I'm sorry, Much. I've ruined everything, haven't I?"

I want him to say no. But he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Does he make you happy?"

"Yes."

"Then," he says, indistinctly, head still buried in the box. "I guess that makes it all right."

With a triumphant, "Ah, ha!" Much finally finds what he wants, or at least he pretends to. It's my guess he's been holding the knife the whole time, perhaps in the vain hope I might go away and leave him to his earlier tuneless, snow-clearing fantasy that I've simply returned from one of my many disappearing acts and all is well with the world.

Quietly, I wait.

"Here," Much says. He slaps a piece of unidentifiable meat onto the flat metal plate he cooks on. "Chop this."

I'm not sure if this is his way of saying he forgives me or if it's more uncustomary defiance.

"I need a knife, Much," I point out.

"Oh. Right." Much hands me his chopping knife and watches as I attack the piece of meat. I vaguely wonder if we're having yet another bowl of vegetable-less stew. If Djaq were here she'd have something to say about that. She'd have something to say about Guy, too, and I can think of a few choice Arabic insults that might fly off her tongue. I hope her and Will are happy in that hot and hostile land, with their birds, and their carpentry. I hope they are making babies. Mostly, I hope they never come back to Nottingham.

"Am I doing this by myself then?" I ask.

Much unsheathes his personal dagger, and I watch as he tackles his own bit of meat, cleanly and precisely. I look at the meal I'm making of my piece and can't decide if it's through lack of practice, or whether I'm simply aware of how close our hands are.

"Why don't you take that off?" Much says, breaking the uneasy silence.

"What?"

"That…that ring."

I stop cutting and look at the one piece of jewellery I wear, other than my tag.

"It was a gift, Much. Guy gave it to me to say thank you."

"Thank you for what? For letting him have his way with you, for taking you away from us, for—"

"Much. That's enough. It wasn't like that."

"No? Then you tell me. What was it like?"

I think of Guy's hand under my chin, of that first heady kiss in the forest, and of our hands everywhere but where they should be. I think of that fateful moment when I knew I would never be the same again.

"Much. Listen, when—"

"No. You listen, Robin," Much interrupts. "I've been counting the days till you came back to the forest. And it's good, good that you're back, I mean, but—"

"But what?" I ask.

"But I think I've changed my mind. I think I liked it better when you were at Locksley and just visited the camp."

"Why?"

"Because every time the two of you go off, _alone_, I'm going to think…well…I'm going to think—"

"Then don't," I tell him.

"Don't what?"

"Don't think."

"Here." I lay down my knife and push the meat towards Much. "I'm useless at this."

Much picks up the mangled piece of meat and dangles it in front of me. "Just how do you two manage at Locksley?" he asks. Then, quickly, "No. Don't answer that."

"I am sorry, Much."

"I know you are," he says.

I watch as he expertly removes meat from bone and wonder if there is something I can offer him to make up for his disappointment in me.

"Listen, Much. When things sort themselves out, you can come to Locksley, and—"

"No. I'll have my Bonchurch if it's all the same to you," Much says, stiffly, slapping dead bits of animal onto the blackened metal, as though there is life in them yet.

"Much, I didn't mean—"

"No, you never do mean, do you," he says, brandishing his knife at me. "Good old Much. He can do all the work while we're busy—"

No amount of knife waving can disguise his hurt.

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"I know," he says, and then, "Did you sleep all right, last night?"

"What?"

"Only, you were tossing and turning quite a bit. I guess the beds…er…bed…is more comfortable in Locksley. I mean, thicker blankets, you know, more—"

"I was cold," I explain.

"Oh."

"What's all this then?" Allan runs a little circuit along Much's wood-scraped tracks. "Aww, look," he grins. "Little paths. Much'll be laying carpets next. Who's this in honour of then? Doesn't Guy like getting his boots all snowy?"

"You'll be the one covered in snow in a minute," Guy glowers, blowing into his gloveless hands and rubbing them together.

He looks tired. He tugs at his doublet, snatches his gloves from his belt, and then walks around for a bit, as though readjusting his leathers after having slept in them all night. I understand. Guy likes to sleep naked, and has done so long before we ended up sharing a bed.

Guy continues to pace, seemingly unaware that he's tracking one of Much's laughable little paths. I watch the way his leather breeches crease and un-crease as he walks, and I think of our legs, entangled, of the illicit thrill when male meets male, the crush of his mouth on mine, the thrust of his cock, and the way he fits himself against me as we fall into lust-sated sleep.

I missed him last night.

Guy finally comes to a standstill.

"Did you sleep all right?" I ask.

Guy shakes his head. "No. I was cold."

I turn and glare at Much.

"I'm just cooking, all right," Much retorts. He makes a great show of stirring a pot I very much doubt has anything in it.

"Is there any water?" Guy asks.

"Jugs are over there," Allan points.

"No. I meant for washing?"

"Oh. Right." Allan indicates the water barrel.

Guy goes over and raps the top of the water with his gloved knuckles.

"Very funny," he says.

"If you smash the ice, there'll be water underneath," Allan tells him.

Guy rounds on Allan, sees my warning look, and immediately thinks better of it. One look at the blackened and bloody gash on his forehead is enough to know why.

"How do you live like this?" Guy says wearily.

"_You_," says Much, waving a wooden spoon at Guy, "are the reason we live like this. If it wasn't for you and that vile Sheriff…and no, don't stop me for talking ill of the dead, because him I'd happily dig up and kill over all again. If I could dig up the sea of course, which I can't, then…then…" Much looks sheepishly in my direction. "Er…what was the question?"

I flick a glance at Guy and catch the unmistakeable smile tugging at his lip.

"The question, Much," I say, "is what's for breakfast?"

Much's eyes widen and he looks down into his pot. "Bugger!" Frantically, he starts throwing bits of chopped meat into the heated water.

"There goes your warm washing water, Guy," Allan grins.

Guy raises his eyes heavenward, and for the first time since waking, I think maybe this day will turn out better than I expected.

* * *

"So," Allan says, wiping away the vestiges of the meat stew from his chin, "what's the plan?"

"We need to know what's going on in the castle, Allan. And that means finding a way in."

"Can't be done, Robin. I've been round that thing several times and, discounting catapulting ourselves over the top, I say, there's no way in."

"There's always a way in, Allan."

"Not this time, Robin. I've seen it with me own eyes. Locked up, guarded, reinforced, tight as a drum."

"There's a tunnel," Guy says.

I'm thinking how long it will take us to make a catapult. "What?"

"There's a tunnel," Guy repeats.

"Pull the other one," Allan scoffs. "Next, you'll be telling us there's a ladder leaning against the north wall with a sign saying 'this way to the castle'.

"I'm telling you, there's a tunnel."

"How do you know?" I ask.

"Because I built it."

"You?" Allan says.

"Not me personally. Some hired men."

"And where are these men now?" I ask.

"Under the tunnel."

We all know what Guy means, just because he's the one who said it. This is what I've been dreading. Knowing about his crimes doesn't seem to matter any more, as long as they are not spoken of. But bringing them here, into the camp, makes them real, and what's more, makes my relationship with Guy seem all the more twisted and unbelievable.

"Tell me about it," I say.

Much lays down his spoon, edges closer. I notice John has emerged and is within earshot.

Guy says, "The Sheriff used to obsess about being held captive in his own castle, should everything fall apart, so he built himself an escape route – a tunnel. The diggers were silenced – I made sure of that – so no one else knows about the tunnel."

"How do we get into this tunnel?" I ask.

Guy shakes his head, as if he's already said too much.

"Tell me," I urge.

Guy glances at the gang members in turn and clears his throat. He may be with me, but he knows there are three men here who have more than enough reason to slit his throat if they so wished, despite whatever retribution I might mete out should they do so.

"It starts in a derelict churchyard outside the west gate and it leads directly to the heart of the castle."

I turn to the gang.

"That's our way in lads."

"No," John says. "It'll be a trap."

"It's not a trap," Guy snaps.

"Robin, we can't—"

"Enough, John. I trust Guy. And you have to trust me. I'll go down the tunnel. Tonight. Find out—"

"No," Guy says. "It has to be me."

"Why you?"

"Because I know the tunnel, and I know my way around at the other end. Also, if I get caught, there's still a chance I can get away with it. I can tell them I was only with you the other day because I've been trying to get close to you, to find out the location of your camp. I can tell them that I was close to convincing you that I've changed allegiances when the guards stumbled upon us."

I can see a hundred and one holes in his story but at the moment I can't think of a better argument. If anything, this act might prove to the gang, once and for all, that Guy's on our side.

"I'm coming with you," I tell him.

"No, Robin. If I do get caught, I'd rather have you on the outside so you can come and rescue me."

"I might not be able to get in, Guy," I reason.

"You've always managed before."

"That's because we only ever had the Sheriff's bunch of incompetent guards between us and what we wanted."

Guy smiles, clearly amused.

"What?"

"They weren't very good were they," he says. "You know, I suspect that they often messed up on purpose. None of them could stand the Sheriff."

"But you did," John growls.

"I did what was necessary. I didn't have a choice."

"Pah!"

"Sit and eat, John," I tell him.

I don't want John and Guy at each other's throats again. John might do more than gash Guy's forehead next time, and I would like to get through this day without any more blood being spilled.

"He was all I had," Guy says, quietly.

I take a plate from Much, pass it to Guy, and tell him to sit and eat. He grips the proffered plate so tightly I'm surprised he doesn't leave indentations in it.

John wordlessly accepts his food from Much and, scowling, seats himself as far away from us as possible.

I hate this. How can we work together if we can't even sit with each other at meal times? Perhaps I should not have sat next to Guy. I thought being close would lend him my support; I know how difficult this is for him. He doesn't know how to be around us, what's expected of him. He has intruded upon a fraternity he knows nothing about. But we're not a gang any more. We're fractured and broken. I made sure of that.

If it were Marian sitting next to me, I could smile at her, give her an affectionate kiss even, and they wouldn't mind. But I can't do that with him, because he's Guy of Gisborne, and because he's a man, and it's too much to forgive.

"Too good to eat with your hands, are you?" John asks.

Guy is staring at his plate.

"No. I was just wondering what it was, that's all."

"I wouldn't ask, mate," Allan says. "Just eat."

Guy passes the plate to me. "I'm not hungry."

"Guy?"

He waves me away and, knocking into Much's little piles of snow, strides towards the trees.

"Not fussy, eh?" Much says.

It's all I can do not to hurl my plate at him.

* * *

"This tunnel thing," Allan says. "Do you think it'll work, Robin?"

I have decided there's little point in going after Guy. And, like it or not, we have a job to do. At least discussing practical things will take the gang's mind off Guy and me.

Using a stick, I draw the perimeter of the castle walls in the snow and the route of the tunnel. If Guy is successful, and gets both in and out of the castle undetected, then we will have our means of gathering information and evading Prince John's guards. Hell, we might even be able to get our hands on some generous tax monies, if we're particularly clever.

I look up, pleased that at last we seem to be making progress. But Allan and Much appear unimpressed with my plans and schemes and are more intent on messing about with the food on their plates, arranging it and rearranging it. I know it's all Allan's doing, he thinks it's funny. But I'm sick of it.

Angrily, I jab the stick in the ground and walk away.

* * *

I'm not really surprised to find myself at the tree where she used to watch for me, it was one of my thinking places, too. I can picture her now, sitting in the branches, swinging her legs and smiling that smile because she thinks I don't know she's there.

'Don't let them get to you', Guy had said.

But they have got to me, because I thought they were my friends, and I thought by now they might have come to terms with my relationship with Guy.

I concentrate on breathing, in and out, watching my steamy white breaths. I look at things: the bare trees, a blackbird perched on a branch, its bright yellow beak, the snow's eye-watering whiteness in the harsh winter sunlight. But it's no good, the more I try to push it away, the bigger the hurt becomes.

Rashly, I sit in the snow, which is stupid, I know. I think it will punish them, but all I am doing is getting cold and wet.

The blackbird calls in alarm and takes off. I leap to my feet, whip an arrow from my quiver and nock it ready.

It is Guy.

"Robin?"

He is very dark against the snow's whiteness. Carefully he sheaths his sword and walks the few paces that separate us. There is no point in trying to hide my distress, he already knows me too well.

"Bastards," he says, wrapping me in his arms.

* * *

I tell Guy to go back to the camp ahead of me. When he is out of sight, I start running. By the time I reach the kissing tree I am gasping for breath.

Crouching down, I remove my gloves and poke four finger holes in the snow, at the spot where her ring lies buried. I have this crazy idea that digging it up and wearing it around my neck again will prove to the gang that I have not forgotten her, that part of being with Guy is about keeping the promise I made as I lost her to death: to continue the fight for England.

"I still love you, Marian," I whisper. "I will always love you."

I pull on my gloves and leave the ring where it is. Because wearing it will only be taking a step backwards and forwards is the only way I dare look now.

And besides, I am already wearing a ring.

* * *

When I get back to the camp the gang are sitting, lined up on a thick tree trunk, and looking contrite. Guy is standing over them. I notice the morning meal has been cleared away, all except mine.

I sit and pick up my plate, but all I do is aimlessly push the food around. I want to be with Guy – alone – but already he is moving away. I guess he thinks it will make it easier for me to talk to my friends.

"Sorry, Robin," Allan mumbles. "It won't happen again."

I nod, don't trust myself to speak. I love these men, despite their faults, but it will take time for us to find each other again, I know that.

"Hey!" Allan says, jumping up and grabbing Much's piece of discarded wood. "Do you want a hand?"

Much leaps to his feet, glad to break the sad and awkward moment.

"You could just wait for it to rain," Guy remarks, emerging from the far end of the camp.

He's carrying his own piece of wood. He's fashioned it with a cross beam so it resembles a besom, but without all the twiggy bits.

"Nah. Where would be the fun in that?" Allan gives me a cheeky grin and I smile in return.

"Where do you want this stuff?" Guy asks, pushing at the snow.

"It's kind of a random thing," Allan says.

Guy meets my eye and laughs, and I feel my own laughter bubbling. He is going to find a way to make this thing work – for me. If it means doing things like pointlessly pushing snow around, then he will do it.

"Come on big guy," I say, slapping John on the arm. "Let's go find us something decent for dinner. No offence, Much."

"None taken, Master."

'Master'. Now I know Much is feeling better.

"By the way," I whisper to Guy, as John and I shoulder our weapons and prepare to head off into the forest. "Just what did you say to them earlier?"

"I said that if they give you any more grief I'd kill them."

He sounds very serious when he says this.

* * *

John and I walk in silence; not the companionable silence we once shared, but at least it seems he is prepared to spend time with me.

"Robin?"

John lightly touches my shoulder and I whip up my bow, thinking he has found prey.

"No." John shakes his head. "I think it's time you and I had a talk."

I turn around, and wait for him to speak, but he indicates to keep walking.

"John, where are we—"

"Just walk."

I know from the way he has said it that this is a John Little who is not prepared to be messed with.

I keep walking.

We reach a clearing, a clearing I know only too well. Here, I was prepared to kill and maim. Here, I wanted to see blood spilled; the Sheriff's and Guy's and anyone else who got in my way. Because Marian was dead, or so I thought, and for a while all reason was lost to me.

"John, what are we doing—"

"Go in." John jabs his staff into my back, forcing me forwards.

With a feeling of sick certainty, I realise what this is about.

"John. This isn't fair."

"No," he says. "It isn't."

"What have I done to you to deserve this?"

"You betrayed me, Robin. You betrayed all of us, by taking up with him."

He gives me another shove.

Inside the cave it is close to darkness, but I do not need to see to remember what took place here.

If Much were here he'd be complaining about bats. If Djaq were here she'd be lighting torches and laying a fire. If Marian were here she'd be lying on that rocky ledge, bleeding and in pain.

"You thought she died that day, because of him." John stands, blocking my way out, stony-faced and resolute, daring me to deny it.

"Guy didn't know it was Marian."

"That's not the point, Robin. You loved her. You took to killing again, because of her, because of what he did."

If John thinks this will break me, he is wrong.

"Yes, John. I did love her, and now I—"

I clamp my mouth, stunned by my near admission.

"_Why_, Robin? Just tell me why."

"No. It's personal, John. It's between Guy and me, and it's none of your business."

"No? Well, you made it our business when you paraded your depravity in front of us."

"That was a mistake. I should not have told you."

"Yes, you're right, Robin. It was a mistake. It _is_ a mistake. And we would have found you out, you know. You can't keep this sort of thing a secret forever."

"You won't tell—"

"Christ almighty!" John exclaims. "What do you take me for? Of course I won't tell anyone. Do you think I want people, our people, your people, to know I'm happy to associate with—"

"Don't! John. Don't say it."

"Like that makes it all right, does it, by not saying it? You're a sodomite, Robin. You and him alike. And you know what you'll be put through, if you're caught."

"And are you going to be the one to make it known, John?"

"No," John sighs. "I'm not. I might not like it, but I would never do that."

"Please, John. If you can't do this for me, then do it for her. England and its people meant everything to Marian. Hate me if you must, curse my name from the rooftops if it makes you feel any better, but don't say you won't help me, help us, win this thing. I can't do it without you. Or him," I add.

"You really mean it, don't you?"

"Yes. I do."

My three little words fill the space of the cave.

Turning away from John, I walk to the rocky ledge, kneel down, and lay my hands on the cool, unforgiving stone. I think of Marian, cold and alone under the hot desert sand, and I think of Guy, the Guy of my nightmare, bloodied and broken.

"Robin?"

"Go away, John. Leave me alone."

"But we need—"

"I said, go, away."

"Robin, I didn't mean—"

John may not like me so much, but his heart is too big to ignore what this is doing to me.

"Please, John."

John makes a small sound, as if he is about to say more, and then I hear the scrape of his staff, and the crunch of his oversized boots, as he makes his way out of the cave.

When I deem John out of sight, I run my hands over the ledge's rocky contours, as though I might find her lingering warmth, and wonder when it was that Marian stopped talking to me. I know the answer, of course. It was the day I found myself rammed up against the front door at Locksley; the day I wanted Guy so badly I'd have sold my very soul to the Devil to satisfy my despicable want.

My ring bumps and scrapes on the rock's rough surface.

"Marian?" I whisper, and then louder, "Marian?"

No answer. No wisp of that ethereal thread linking my world to hers.

I rest my head on my arms, knowing my tears will bring me nothing but the relief of surrender. Marian will still be dead, and Guy will still be the forbidden fruit that I cannot seem to live without.

A sudden blast of winter wind whips through the cave, catching the back of my neck. With it, an echo of the past: 'Robin. Oh, Robin. Come out, come out, wherever you are'. Sheriff Vaisey calling my name, calling me to come out and face him, staunching my crying, denying me my grief.

This time, there is no one calling me.

* * *

Time has passed. The bright winter sun has given way to the blue-grey promise of evenfall.

John is standing at the cave's entrance, holding my bow. It's my guess he's been standing there for some time. A part of me is glad he chose not to abandon me, but the other part, the private part, wishes I were alone.

"John, I—"

I don't know what to say, or even how to say it.

With a quiet "sorry", I push past John's great bulk.

"Wait." John slaps a hand on my shoulder, halting my progress.

"No more, John," I tell him. "Please."

"Yes, more, Robin. Because, today is a good day to—"

"John?" I turn around.

John sucks in a breath, exhales, right down to his boots. "Today is a good day, to say, I'm sorry, Robin. I didn't know. I didn't want to know. But if they can accept it, then I can accept it, will accept it."

"However," he grunts. "Don't think I'm going to start going soppy on the pair of you, because I'm not. I don't like him, and I don't want him in the camp. But if he's willing to help us, and as long as he keeps out of my way, then I'm willing to make an effort. Not for him – for you."

"That's all I'm asking, John."

There is an awkward moment, when we are only too aware of John's hand on my shoulder.

"Right then," John says briskly. "Let's go catch us some supper before the sun is gone. Squirrel I can do without tonight."

"John?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

"Here." John starts to hand me my bow, thinks better of it, and embraces me in a rough hug.

"All right," he says, gruffly.

"Don't worry, John," I smile. "I'm not going to kiss you."

"Thank God for small mercies," he says.

* * *

When John and I get back, with not one but two deer, there are walls of snow all around the periphery of the camp.

"Fortifications," Guy explains.

His face is flushed and he's tied his long hair back with a length of twine. I notice Much's face is rather wet, as is the rest of him.

"Much?"

"Er…snowball fight," he says sheepishly, flicking his eyes at Guy.

"Yeah," Allan says. "Guy might not be so good at capturing outlaws but he's got a blinding over-arm on him."

Guy shrugs his shoulders. "What can I say." He looks as though he's been enjoying himself. "So," Guy says. "What else do you lot do for recreation around here?"

"You mean when we're not running away from people," Allan says. "Well, Robin plays arrows mostly."

"You do surprise me."

"Oh, and we rob."

"Of course. So how does this robbing nobles thing work then?" Guy asks.

"Seriously?"

"Well, if I'm here I might at well make myself useful."

"I don't think we'll find too many rich nobles making their way through the forest in this snow," I tell him. "How about a little target practice instead." I hold up my bow, indicating the gang are included.

John shakes his head, will not be drawn. Much says he needs to prepare supper. Allan declares himself done in by all the snow activity and in need of a sleep, or a drink, preferably both.

"Come on then," I say to Guy. "Let's see if we can't improve your aim."

I shoulder my bow and Guy retrieves his weapon from beside his bunk and follows me into the forest.

* * *

I can't fault his technique, but something isn't quite right. I watch again. It's there, the angle of his elbow, only slightly out, but enough to make him miss the centre of the target board.

"No. Like this," I tell him. I swiftly nock an arrow. "See." I wait until he has taken in my stance, then let the arrow fly. It hits the mark, dead centre, and I do my best not to give a self-satisfied grin.

"That's what I'm doing," Guy says, rattling his bow as though it's the one at fault.

"Do it again," I tell him.

He does. The arrow buries itself in the board, a finger-width short of the centre spot.

"Here." I position myself behind Guy and ask him to ready another arrow, ignoring the urge to pull the tie from his hair.

I gently press on his elbow. "There. Now, try again."

Guy looses the arrow.

"Better." I pass him another arrow. "Again."

I want him to be good, as good as me. Because it might help save his life. Because I might not always be around to protect him.

He tries again, and I notice he's gone back to his old style.

I pass him another arrow and place a hand on his elbow.

"Now," I tell him.

The arrow smacks into the red dot. Guy laughs, delighted.

"Do it again."

Guy readies another arrow, concentrates, adjusts his elbow, and releases the arrow.

Dead centre, again. Guy spins around, triumphant. "Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," I tell him.

Guy drops his bow. Our mouths meet, greedy and insistent; hands start to fumble and pull, on fastenings and ties, buckles and belts.

"God, I missed you last night," Guy says.

"Ouch!" I exclaim, as something cold and wet hits the back of my head.

I whirl around. "Allan!"

"Careful gents," Allan grins. " You'll be melting all the snow."

Guy snorts. Allan is amused.

"Spying on us, Allan?"

"Nah, Robin. I was just on me way to town, and needed to stop for a piss, but I reckon I'll get me todger out somewhere else. Don't want you guys getting all riled up. Not that you aren't—"

I bend down, scoop some snow.

"All right, all right." Allan holds up his hands in mock surrender. "I know when I'm not wanted." He turns and walks away. "Be good," he calls, waving over his shoulder. "And if you can't be good, make sure there's money in it."

I look at Guy, expecting him to be angry, but he's smiling.

"What?" I say.

"He's all right, that Allan."

"Yes. He is." I tug on Guy's sleeve. "Come on, we ought to go back. We need to make plans for this tunnel thing."

"What about our shooting practice?"

"I think you're as good as you're going to get, Guy."

"I didn't mean that kind of shooting."

"Oh, are you sure? Only I thought you didn't like hanging about in trees."

"I could learn to love them, and besides, you're in serious need of some target practice yourself, if I'm any judge of things."

His hand finds and cups the front of my breeches.

"Then perhaps," I say, "you'd care to lend a hand."

"My hands, and indeed any other part of my anatomy, are all yours, Robin."

Avoiding the urge to give in here and now, I lead Guy towards a thick stand of trees and, more importantly, into a half-hollowed oak. It's one I've used before, whenever I had the need to 'amuse myself'.

Leaning against the tree's rough interior, I pull the tie from Guy's hair.

"Might we need it for later, Robin?"

"You won't find any bedposts in the forest, Guy," I smile.

"Just a thought." Guy finishes undoing my belt while I work on his leathers. "Now then," Guy says. "Don't you think, cold or no cold, we'd best have these breeches of yours off. I think they've seen enough action over the past day or so."

"Yours, too," I tell him.

"Ah, but leather can hide a multitude of sins, Robin, or didn't you know that?"

"Good," I say. "Let's be sinful then."

And so, concealed by evening shadow and an ancient oak, we begin.

* * *

We are eating a late supper.

Allan had obviously changed his mind about warm taverns and equally warm tavern wenches, and has decided to content himself with a campfire, doubtless not wishing to miss out on the evening's conversation.

Much's cooking has been declared a huge success and the barrel of ale that John produces, alongside the fact he has decided to sit with us this time, helps to smooth things along.

Guy is telling the gang about his time in France as a youngster, and they are listening. I know that he didn't have a very happy childhood, he's told me this. But this is for me alone to know. Instead, he's telling them about inconsequential things, like the food, and the houses, and the traditions.

To my astonishment, Guy is a surprisingly good storyteller. Much and Allan sit, rapt, even John looks mildly interested and, for once, their faces show something other than mistrust or hostility.

I notice Guy is beginning to relax in their company, is beginning to know and understand them. He gladly suffers Much's inane questions, Allan's quirky sense of humour, and John's dark scowls. And they are trying their best. They have accepted the situation; they have accepted him and me.

They make me happy.

He makes me happy.

And, for a while, I can almost forget that Guy is about to go into the castle and risk his life.


	12. Advance Party

**Advance Party**

Night in the forest: a luminous moon, deep snow, leaf-bare trees, the familiar 'kee-wick' of a tawny owl cutting through the frozen stillness, and, far-off, the plaintive howl of a wolf. In the midst of it all, our camp, with its pots and pans, its makeshift tables and stools, its fire and its tools, and Much's laughable little paths wending their way through the place I once called home.

Now that I have taken up residence in Locksley, with Guy, I no longer think of the camp as my home but as my sanctuary – our sanctuary. So, am I being a fool then, tempting fate by insisting we find a way into Nottingham Castle. Probably. But I have my reasons, not least because Robin Hood does not hide in the forest while his people are still being taxed to the hilt and while they still struggle to put decent food on the table.

Having eaten their fill, and drunk enough ale to take their leave of us with soft smiles and quietly muttered 'sleep well's, John, Much and Allan have retired to their respective beds, leaving Guy and me alone, sitting in front of the dying embers of the campfire, putting off the moment when we must say our own goodnights.

God knows, I'm tired enough to sleep and, for the briefest of moments, I almost wish Guy were not here, for at least then I could retire to my bed in the knowledge that I might sleep soundly, or as soundly as I can these days. Instead, I know that I will be cold, lying there and thinking of him, while he is lying in Will's bunk, equally cold. Because although my friends have accepted my relationship with Guy that does not mean that he and I can share a bed while we are in the camp. Our only chance of being together in that way will be when we can find a stolen moment while the others are occupied in some task or other and out of plain sight. This is only right, of course. They don't want to watch Robin Hood, their esteemed leader, the man they have trusted to always do right by them, climbing into the breeches of another man, especially when that other man happens to be Guy of Gisborne.

Earlier this night, Guy had showed them another side to him, the side I've come to know and love. And in the telling of his younger days in France, by proving to them that he once lived in a world other than one of power and might, my friends have come to see that he is not the monster they once believed him to be. But it will still be some time before they can truly accept Guy as a part of our brotherhood, and as my lover.

I must take what I can get, for the alternative – a life without my friends in it – is one I can neither imagine, nor one that I want.

Guy slides closer to me, until our legs are touching, and seeks out my cold hand with his equally cold one. Where, once, I actively sought out this hand holding, now, it seems almost childish. But even as I try to worm my hand away from his, so does Guy's grip tighten. I relent, relax my hand, and allow the pads of his fingers to make small circles on my open palm. And, despite my bone-weary state, an anticipatory thrill courses through me, flooding my groin with an all too familiar ache.

"You should not be doing that," I tell him.

"No? And what should I be doing?"

"You should be going to bed. _We_ should be going to bed."

"It is the _we_ bit I was thinking about."

"We can't, not here. And besides, we both really need to sleep. Tomorrow you are going into that tunnel and I don't want you falling asleep halfway down the damn thing."

"About the tunnel, Robin?"

"Yes?"

"Is it really so important to get into the castle? Shouldn't we wait, at least until we know more?"

"By the time we know more, Guy, it may well be too late."

"Too late?"

"Look, we know for a fact that Prince John has coveted Nottingham Castle ever since Richard was crowned king. Now that he has that castle he means to keep hold of it, both because of its strategic importance and because it's another feather in his cap. Because castles mean power, and Prince John wants that above all else. As long as Vaisey held the castle John deemed it secure, but now, with no appointed sheriff, or at least none that we know of, is it any wonder John is trying to hold Nottingham castle himself. Is it any wonder he has barricaded himself behind its protective walls. The question is, why?"

"Hiding?" Guy suggests.

"Hiding from who? We are too small to worry him and the people too hungry and too downtrodden to care."

"Preparing to attack then? Perhaps waiting for a show of Black Knights to join him?"

"Attack who?"

"Perhaps the King?"

"Richard?"

"Maybe now King Richard knows of John's plotting he is sending a force to deal with him?"

"I don't know, Guy, and, to be honest, I don't care. I'm tired of kings and princes and their squabbles. What I do know is that our coin is running out and that my people need feeding. What I do know is that exorbitant taxes are still being collected and that those taxes are still making their way into the castle. Let the Prince and his cronies swill, and gorge, and backstab all they like. What I want is money, to feed the poor. What I want is to be able to ride through this forest without being chased or cut down. What I want is to be able to go back to Locksley and…"

"And?"

I squeeze Guy's hand. "And you. I want you. By my side, and in my bed."

"Down the tunnel it is then," Guy says briskly. He lets go my hand and is halfway to standing before changing his mind and sitting down again.

"Have you really run out of monies?" he asks.

"The only coins we have left are the ones in the wooden box, under our bed."

"Oh" is all Guy can manage, doubtless recalling our heated argument back in Locksley, the one that resulted with him in tears and me lying next to him on the bed, one boot on, one off.

"We had a stash," I explain. "Left here when we took off for the Holy Land. But when we got back it had gone."

"Well, don't look at me," Guy says. "When I stumbled upon your camp I was already very sick. I could no more have carried away your treasures than I could keep my insides from coming up. If you hadn't found me when you did I might well not be here now, though I guess that would have made it easier for you."

I swallow down my guilt. Guy does not know, and, please God he never will, how close I came to allowing Matilda to poison him, as he lay sick and feverish, so that I might never act upon my unholy desires.

"I know it wasn't you, Guy. But someone found the camp while we were away."

At the word 'away' I sense Guy stiffen. We both know what that word means. It means, when we were in Acre. It means, when Vaisey and he tried to murder King Richard. It means, when Marian died.

I lay my ringed hand on his leathered thigh. "Sorry," I say, apologising for both my guilty secret and for reminding Guy of a time he'd give anything to erase from his memory if only that were possible.

"It's fine, Robin. Really," he says, covering my hand with his own.

The instant his hand touches mine the painful moment is over. After all, we have already thrashed this particular subject into submission: on the boat, journeying across France, during a drunken conversation slumped outside a barn in Étienne – all the whys and wherefores, all the what ifs. And we know it doesn't matter anymore, any of it. Not the reasons why she was where she was. Not even why she said what she said. Because, in the end, it had all come down to one word – love. If she had said, 'Because I am on Robin Hood's side and always have been' he would have felt anger, certainly, and a sense of betrayal, most definitely. But she didn't. She said, "I love Robin Hood. I have always loved Robin Hood". It had been a declaration from the heart, said at the wrong time, and in front of a man whose blood was already up, a man teetering on a knife-edge. And perhaps if I had reached her more quickly, perhaps if the King had not been lying incapacitated on the ground, perhaps if Marian had had a weapon, or Guy none, then it would not have happened. But I didn't reach her, and Guy was the one with the sword in his hand, and Marian died because of it.

It still hurts, but he carries the burden of committing the act, while I only carry the burden of not preventing it.

Guy sighs, long and deep, and laces our fingers together.

"Tell me," he says. "Why did Marian not join you in the forest? I mean, after her father died?"

"She did, for a while, but it didn't work."

"Oh?"

"She said she was of more use in the castle, that she could better protect me from there. And one thing you have to know about Marian is that she always knew her own mind."

"Or maybe she didn't?" Guy suggests.

I turn and look at Guy, at the man Marian tried to find excuses for, time and again.

"No, you're right," I concede. "Maybe she didn't."

* * *

It is morning.

Surprisingly, I slept well.

Unsurprisingly – and here I am considering the empty ale barrel – John, Much and Allan look as though even the simplest of tasks might prove a bit too much today.

"Crikey," Allan says, opening and shutting each eye in turn and then looking long and hard at the upturned barrel. "Where on earth did you get that brew from, John? 'Cos it usually takes a hell of a lot more than I drank last night to knock me over."

John makes a sound halfway between a growl and a moan and then, with surprising agility, bolts towards the trees.

Much is scratching his head and staring bemusedly at the remnants of last night's meal. "It was properly cooked. I know it was."

"Much?"

"You're all right, aren't you, Robin?"

"Yes. At least, no ill effects that I'm aware of."

"And…er…?" Much nods in the direction of Will's bunk.

"Guy is fine, as far as I know."

"Oh. Only I thought, maybe—"

"Thought what?"

"Nothing. Forget it. You just carry on…doing whatever you're going to do. Not that I mean you're going to do anything, but—"

"Much?"

"What?"

"Stop it. Stop digging yourself into a hole."

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Put Much into a hole, preferably a deep one, and then you wouldn't have to listen to him bumbling on about things you say aren't going to happen when you know they are, and I know they are, and you'll still do them anyway, and I can't stop you—"

Much bites his lip, fighting tears, and turns his back on me.

I flick my eyes at Allan.

"Not saying anything," Allan says, and then at my insistent glare, "I'll…er… go make myself useful then, shall I?"

"You do that, Allan."

With his back still to me, Much hugs himself, fists clenching and unclenching, and I know it's not because of the cold or the fact he is feeling the worse for wear.

"Much?"

I walk the few paces that separate us.

"Much, I—"

"Don't touch me."

"Much, please."

Much shudders, then pulls himself upright, stiff as a soldier at attention and says, "Go away, Robin. Just…go away."

"You don't mean that."

"Why?" he says, quietly. "Why did you have to go and spoil everything?"

I'm tempted to say it was not of my doing, but that will only make my sordid relationship with Guy look worse, not better.

Instead, I say, "We'll go, Much. All right. We'll go back to Locksley. You won't ever have to—"

"No!" Much whirls around, his self-restraint crumbling in the wake of my bitter declaration. He stumbles towards me, crumples into my chest, his hands clutching onto my shirt as a child might cling to his mother's skirts and, for a moment, it is hard to remember that he is most likely my senior in years.

"Robin. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't want you to go away, not ever. I've been telling myself that I hate you. But I don't hate you. I can't hate you. You mean more to me than you could possibly know. You've made me laugh, and cry, and be scared witless more times than I can remember. But most of all, you've always been there. You're my family. My father, my brother, everything. And I…I love you. There, I've said it, and I mean it. Of course, that doesn't mean that I—"

"I should quit while you're ahead, Much," I smile.

Much rubs his runny nose on my shirt.

"Just one more thing," he sniffles.

"What?"

"You smell like something the cat dragged in."

"What?"

Much lifts his tear-streaked face from my chest.

"I don't know, like an old saddle, or something."

"That would be me then," Guy says, tugging at his doublet and stretching.

Gently, I prise Much's hands from their stranglehold on my clothing.

"Are you all right this morning?" I ask.

"In a better state than your gang by the looks of it." Guy points at John, who is emerging from the trees, still clutching his stomach in a worrying manner. "Just you and me for the morning meal then?" he grins.

"Looks like it," I grin back.

"Shall I?" Guy picks up Much's wooden spoon and starts scraping at a blackened pan.

"Er…excuse me," Much says, indicating the spoon. "I think you'll find that I'm the cook around here."

"Judging by Allan and John's constant disappearances this morning, I'd say it might be time for a replacement."

"I'll have you know that it was not my cooking that—"

"Give him the spoon, Guy," I warn.

"By the way," Guy says, whispering conspiratorially into Much's ear. "Robin likes his eggs well done."

"Well, of course, I know that. I—" Much turns and waggles his spoon at Guy. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not falling for any of that nonsense."

"I think you already did, Much," I tell him.

I smile, both at Guy's 'got you' face and at Much's 'you're as bad as he is' face and, at this precise moment, I can't decide who I love the most.

* * *

I think it's a mistake, leaving the gang behind, but Guy assures me all will be well.

"Just remember," I tell him. "In and out. No creeping around the castle and no heroics."

"Don't worry, Robin. I'll leave all the heroics to you."

"And Guy?"

"What?"

"If you get caught—"

"I know. Don't reveal the camp's location, no matter what."

"No. I was going to say - lie."

We are lucky, it is a cloudless sky and we have no need of a flame. Besides, I doubt even the hardiest soul would want to venture out on such a cold night.

After a day of gentle leg-pulling over John and Allan's frequent 'tree dashes', the physical exertions of trudging through deep snow to carry out the village drops, and the fact that Much is finally seeing Guy and me in a better light, I am feeling happier and allow myself to think back on yesterday; on a flushed and exuberant looking Guy and on those ridiculous snow 'fortifications'.

"What?" Guy asks.

"You," I laugh. "Playing snowballs with Allan and Much."

"What of it?"

"I don't know. It's just so…so, un-Guy."

He turns to me, smiles.

"Well, it made a change from trying to stick them with swords or arrows."

He shakes his head and turns away, perhaps thinking he has said the wrong thing. I think we will always be saying the wrong thing.

"Well, I just wanted to say thank you, for the snow thing, for making an effort."

"They're your friends."

"Yes, they are. And they mean a lot to me. _You_ mean a lot to me."

Guy jerks me to a stop.

"A quick breather?" he says.

I nod.

We have only been walking a short while.

* * *

As he wraps his powerful arms around me I think of Marian: her lips yielding, where his are insistent, her arms soft, where his are capturing, and her tongue hesitant rather than searching. And me, my want for her a slow burning candle, rather than this instant flash of need he provokes in me.

"Well, well, well. Huntingdon. And the King always said you never had it in you."

My tongue slides from Guy's mouth, my hand from around his neck.

Guy pushes me away and unsheathes his sword while I un-shoulder my bow and swiftly nock an arrow.

"Who's there?" I say. "Where are you?"

"Show yourself," Guy demands.

The disembodied voice laughs.

I point my arrow towards a thick stand of trees, angrily berating myself that my carelessness means we have been caught out. But caught out by who?

"I've heard of consorting with the enemy," the man says, "but isn't this taking things a bit too far."

I catch the smallest of movements and silently motion Guy towards its source.

Side by side we approach the man's hiding place. When we are no more than half a dozen sword lengths away, a helmeted figure slips from behind two sweet chestnuts. I know immediately it is not one of Prince John's men, the clothes are all wrong.

"Who are you?" I ask. Unwaveringly, I aim my arrow at the man's chest.

"Oh, come, come, Huntingdon," the man scolds affably. "Surely you have not forgotten your old friend?"

"Christophe?"

Now I see it, a crusader's uniform, all but concealed by a heavy winter cloak.

"Robin? You know this man?" Guy asks.

"He bloody well ought to," Christophe says. "We fought alongside one another for nigh on three years."

"He is right," I say, finally convinced if by nothing else than the man's accent, that this is indeed the Christophe I served alongside in the King's private guard.

"What are you doing here?" I ask. "In Sherwood, in the middle of the night? In fact, what are you even doing in England? I thought—"

"I could ask you the same question, Huntingdon, although to be honest Richard did say I ought to find you lurking about in these blasted woods. Didn't say you'd have your tongue searching out another man's vocal cords though."

Christophe removes his helmet. His flat brown hair is a little longer and a few shades lighter than I remember, but the thin moustache still perches on his upper lip and the small half-moon scar above his right eyebrow still stands out whitely on his swarthy skin.

"Are you alone?" I ask.

"What!" Christophe snorts. "Have you lost your common sense as well as your sense of morality?"

Christophe waves an arm and a further seven helmeted figures emerge from behind the trees.

"It's all right," Christophe tells his men. "This is Huntingdon. And the other blackguard, if I'm not mistaken, is Guy of Gisborne."

"How do you—"

"Still have a penchant for black leather, I see."

"What?"

Guy glances at me, and I shake my head, as confused as he is.

"I saw you, Gisborne," Christophe says. "After you tried to kill the King, you, and that sorry excuse for a sheriff. Would have had you too, if it hadn't been for some incompetent boatman at the port."

Christophe regards me.

"King Richard said her death had hit you hard, Locksley. But he didn't mention you'd turned traitor because of it."

Christophe clicks his fingers and before we know it both Guy's sword and dagger and my scimitar and bow have been taken from us. Christophe's men encircle us. I am uneasy.

"I've never been anything but loyal to the Crown," I say. "But what about you? Why are you not in the Holy Land, protecting the King?"

Again, Christophe snorts. "Dear me, you really are in the wilderness here, aren't you."

"Explain," I demand. There has always been something I don't like about Christophe. Slimy is the word that comes to mind.

"King Richard is here, in England. We docked a couple of weeks back. The first thing he did was to send me ahead to look for you. I tried Locksley first, but the villagers said you'd disappeared. I've been trailing round these damn woods for the best part of two days looking for you."

"Well, you've found me. Now tell me what's going on."

"This," says Christophe, sweeping his arm towards his men, "is the King's advance party."

"Advance party?"

"Yes. Richard wanted a small troop to precede his army. Find out if the situation in Nottingham castle is as he has been led to believe."

"What situation?"

"That John's supporters have laid siege to the castle."

It seems Allan had been right about something untoward going on in Nottingham's great fortress.

"So, the King has come home to sort his brother out?"

"He'll have a bit of a job," Christophe laughs. "Prince John's not at the castle. He's in France, been there for weeks. The weasel doesn't have the courage to face Richard himself, is getting others to do his dirty work."

"The Black Knights?"

"Is that what they call themselves? Well, no matter. Richard plans to attack the castle, take it back."

"He's coming here, to Nottingham?"

I flick a glance at Guy. He knows what this might mean, at least as far as he is concerned.

"Yes, tomorrow, which is why he wanted me to find you. He's planning on using Locksley as a base, at least to begin with. But Christ, if he catches you with this…this traitor…he'll—"

"He's not going to catch me, Christophe. And furthermore, you're not going to tell him what you've just seen."

"Oh no?"

I notice all of the crusaders are heavily armed and that several have hands readied upon their weapons.

"Listen, Huntingdon. Your sordid activities are of no concern to me. But I'm duty bound to tell the King that the man who tried to kill him in Acre is right here, in Nottingham."

"And so you can," I say. "Although I would prefer to tell Richard myself."

Guy places a hand on my arm. "Robin?"

"I told you Guy, I will speak for you. The King trusts me."

I shift uncomfortably, recalling the gang's and my near crucifixion in the desert.

"I will make it right," I say, rather more harshly than I intended. Again, I am uncomfortable, recalling my numerous meetings with King Richard and all that they entailed.

All too often these private tête-à-têtes had had no obvious purpose, other than for Richard to ply me with both his gripes and more wine than was good for me. In fact, there were times I had wondered whether Richard's constant demands to pick the brains of his best lieutenant belied his real intent.

The night before Guy's attack on the King, Richard had been particularly agitated, and when I had said something out of turn he had rounded on me quite viciously. He had immediately begged my pardon, something I'd rarely, if ever, known him to do with anyone – Richard wasn't big on admitting he was wrong. That was the first time one of his friendly hugs had felt suspiciously like something else and I remember I had hastily made excuses about being tired and needing to prepare for the coming day. Richard had drunk too much by that point to see through my fabrications, and I'm not sure whether my departing gesture had been by way of placating the aggrieved King or the hint of a promise – a promise I had no intention of keeping.

On returning to my tent I had paced and fretted, desperately trying to work out what I would do if Richard made such demands of me. He was the King after all, and had I not proved by my bloody actions alone, that I would serve my king in whatever way was asked of me?

As it was, I never found out. The attack happened, Guy stabbed me, the King moved on and I returned to England, my only obligation to His Highness, to see his lands and chattels well until his return from the Holy Land.

Now, I am told that Richard is back, on home soil, ready and wanting to claim everything that is rightfully his and, quite possibly, me as well.

"The King trusts you," Christophe sneers. "How can you say that when you're standing next to this traitor."

"Guy is with me, with us, Christophe. He is one of us now and I will make sure King Richard knows it."

"With us? In us, don't you mean? For Christ's sake, Huntingdon. You're in the breeches of the man who tried to kill the King of England. I think Richard will want to know something about that."

"My personal life is of no concern to the King. He only wants—"

"Your personal life is of every concern to Richard if you're fucking the bastard who tried to murder him."

Christophe's top lip curls, he is clearly enjoying himself. I remember this side to him, this sadistic streak of his. I remember the times when he committed acts that could easily have been avoided. And I also remember how often Richard had made excuses for him.

_This is war, Robin. Show mercy and we are done for._

"The King will listen to me," I say resolutely.

My bow is leaning against a tree, out of reach.

"The King will listen to me," Christophe mimics. "Yes, well, it always was about you, wasn't it, Huntingdon. Until you left and it became my turn to shine. Now Richard wants you back, by his side. "My best archer". Best archer be damned. Best cock-lover more like."

"You bastard!" Guy roars, his hand diving for the small dagger he keeps in the upper part of his right boot.

"Guy, don't," I warn.

Christophe smirks and snatches the dagger before it has even cleared Guy's boot.

Guy gives me an angry stare, even though he knows it would have been nothing more than an empty gesture of defiance. We are severely outnumbered.

Forgetting that I have just chastised Guy for rising to Christophe's taunts, I judge the distance to my bow and dart between the two nearest crusaders.

It is a gesture as futile as Guy's and, before I have even touched my precious weapon, I find myself down in the snow with at least three blades pressed to my throat.

"Tut, tut, Huntingdon." Christophe wags a finger at me. " You should know better than to fight against such odds."

"I don't believe in odds, you should know that, Christophe."

"Yes, well," he says. "You can keep your sordid little secret. I very much doubt the King will believe me in any event. You always were too good to be true."

Christophe flicks his gloved hand and two of his men drag me to my feet.

"He, however," Christophe says, pointing at Guy. "Deserves everything he's got coming to him."

Christophe makes some small sign and a further two crusaders grab Guy's arms.

"Get your bloody hands off me!"

A third crusader holds a sword to Guy's chest.

"Let him go, Christophe," I demand.

"Or what?" he sneers. "You're hardly in a position to bargain, Huntingdon."

"Christophe. For God's sake, use your head. What will the King say if he finds out you've taken the law into your own hands."

"The law? Who says anything about the law? Oh, no, no, no, no."

There is a dangerous edge to Christophe's voice I don't like. His men shuffle in the snow, unsure.

"Christophe," I say. "Let the King be the judge of what's to be done."

"Pah!" Christophe spits. "The King has never been able to judge where you're concerned. His blue-eyed boy, his best man. The great Robin of Locksley, who can do no wrong in Richard's eyes. And me. Always loyal, serving the King, nothing too small. Yet overlooked time and time again. Would bend over backwards – hell, did bend over backwards more times than I can remember, because you wouldn't. And still it won me no favours. Because it was you, always you, he wanted. Probably fantasised about you when he was laying into me. And now look at you. Fucking this traitorous bastard. Gives you a thrill does it. A perverse kick, a—"

I yank against the men holding me and my reward is a sharp jab between my shoulder blades that has quite likely drawn blood.

Christophe turns to one of the men holding Guy, says something I cannot hear. The man does not move and Christophe snarls and advances on him. He raises an arm as though to strike the insubordinate crusader, then thinks better of it and slaps Guy's face instead, splitting open the bloody gash on Guy's forehead.

Guy spits at Christophe and receives another hefty smack to the jaw.

Christophe growls at his men and another crusader comes forward, somewhat reluctantly I think. At Christophe's insistence, he lifts Guy's legs and removes both Guy's boots and stockings. Christophe leans in and whispers something in the crusader's ear. The man nods and starts unbuckling Guy's belt.

"No!" Guy yells, struggling to free himself from his tormentors' clutches.

"Christophe, don't," I implore, only to find myself once more on the ground. This time my arms are pulled behind my back and a rope is wound round and round my wrists and tied off with a sharp tug. I am tethered and helpless.

I spit snow and lift my head in time to see Guy ineffectually kicking out with his bare feet and receiving a punch in the stomach that has him doubling over.

I turn my head. My bow and quiver are no longer in sight, have been flung into the trees, as has my sword.

I catch a movement behind Guy's now semi-naked body and three more men join us. They are carrying flaming torches and, at Christophe's beckoning, they move closer to the brutish scene unfolding in the moonlit forest. Beyond the thick stand of trees, I hear the soft whinny of a horse.

Guy is yanked upright. More of his clothes come off, are flung away. Whenever he resists, he is kicked or punched. There is blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. He is shaking with cold and rage.

"Richard will hear of this, Christophe."

My threat is met with derisive laughter, as Christophe forces Guy onto his knees.

"Like he will care what happens to this piece of scum," Christophe retorts, grabbing a handful of long, dark hair and jerking Guy's head back. He presses the sole of his boot to Guy's cut forehead and with an exultant "yes!" pushes Guy backwards into the snow.

"So, who wants him, eh?" Christophe asks, eyeing his men, his boot now firmly planted on Guy's naked chest.

One by one the men's raucous laughter turns to nervous titters. Christophe has gone too far. These men of the King did not bargain on this, but their leader, whose commands they must follow, hates me, has always hated me, if for no reason other than I always held the King's favour. He has waited years to find a way to hurt me and now he has.

"No one, eh? Well, I'd take him on myself, but not after Hood has been inside him, soiled goods and all that. Who knows what disease I might catch. Hell, I might end up becoming a do-gooder, feeding the poor and making a name for myself among the great unwashed."

Christophe is out of control and his men know it. He flicks his wrist and the deadly steel glint of a knife catches the torches' light.

"If you deny King Richard a court, he will kill you," I say. "I will kill you."

"Oh, don't worry, Huntingdon. The King will have his chance to enjoy this little victory, and I will be there to see this piece of dirt hung, drawn and quartered, but I suspect you won't, so I thought I'd give you a taste of what is to come."

Christophe nods at his men and approaches Guy. I can almost see him licking his lips. At a wordless signal, two of the crusaders part Guy's legs. Guy twists his head to look at me, imploring, terrified.

"Christophe. Think what you're doing. Think of your good standing, your duty."

I may not be able to appeal to the man, but perhaps the soldier in him will listen.

"I know my duty, Huntingdon." Christophe brandishes his knife at Guy. "The question is, do you know yours?"

He hovers over Guy. Guy closes his eyes, twisting his head to the side, readying himself for the ordeal he knows he has no way of escaping.

"Robin!"

"Master!"

There is an agonised cry. Guy. And a blasphemous curse. Christophe.

Christophe jerks backwards, wheels around.

Weapons raised, John, Allan and Much burst into the clearing.

"Are the others behind you?" I shout, nodding vigorously at Allan.

"Right behind us," Allan hollers, picking up on my cue.

"But we—"

John sees the danger and grabs Much by the neck.

In the face of unknown odds, the soldier in Christophe decides to make a prudent retreat. He waves at his men and those holding Guy shove him head first into the snow.

"Go! Go!" Christophe yells.

With a great kicking of snow the crusaders dash for the trees. Moments later, I hear the jangle of horses' bits, agitated whinnies, and the thwack of spur on flank.

"Bloody hell!" Allan exclaims, staring wide-eyed at Guy.

"Untie me, quickly," I demand, stumbling to my feet.

John picks up Guy's discarded dagger and slashes at the ropes binding my wrists. Allan and Much turn this way and that, weapons poised. No one will go to Guy.

"For God's sake!" I exclaim.

Guy is on all fours, his knees, hands and wrists buried beneath the snow. He is breathing heavily, but otherwise appears unhurt.

"Guy, look at me. You're all right."

Trembling violently, Guy shakes his head, unable or unwilling to move.

"Guy. It's all right. They've gone." I grip his upper arms. "Trust me."

I turn to the gang.

"Get his clothes. Now!"

And then I see it, like blots of red ink, turning the snow watermelon pink.

"Guy?"

Guy sits back on his haunches. There is a brutal slash on his upper thigh, blood running through the thick black hairs that touch mine whenever our legs entangle.

I hastily untie the black neck scarf Guy gave me and start winding it around his leg in an effort to staunch the bleeding.

"Robin. Here."

John hands me Guy's braies and breeches, Allan his shirt. Much has found Guy's belt and boots. Having duly delivered the clothing, the gang back away from a scene I am sure they would rather not have to witness.

"You need to get dressed," I coax. "You're freezing."

Guy makes no move to stand.

"Guy?" I shake him, gently. "Get up. In case they come back."

At my solemn warning, Guy makes a harsh noise, halfway between a choke and a sob, hugging the bundle of cold black leathers to his chest.

Finally, unsteadily, he comes to his feet and starts to dress. It takes him forever, because his hands are numb, and because he is in tears.

I am beyond rage.

"Robin," John says, lightly touching my arm. "You need to take him to the camp, make him warm."

"Him is Guy," I seethe. "I am taking Guy to Locksley."

"Then we will come with you, Robin. You can't take the chance that Prince John's guards will not come back."

"It was not John's men," I tell him.

"Then who was—"

"Not now, John, all right."

John nods. "When you're ready," he says. He edges away.

Guy leans on my shoulder and pulls on his boots.

"Where's my sword?" he says. "I need my bloody sword."

"We will find it," I assure him. "But it's more important to get you warm first and to see to that leg."

I start to thread Guy's belt through the top of his leathers.

"I can do it!"

"I'm sorry, I was only—"

Guy wipes his face, takes a steadying breath.

"No. I'm sorry, Robin. I should not have suggested we come alone, it was a mistake."

"I'm as much to blame."

"I just wanted—"

"I know."

Guy flaps his hands in frustration and I see to his belt.

"Guy?" Allan hands Guy his sword.

"I'm going to kill the bastard," Guy says, sheathing the deadly blade.

"Not if I get him first."

"No." Guy grips my wrist. "It's too late for me, another killing, but not you. I can't let you—"

"Don't talk like that, Guy. It's never too late, you hear me."

I don't care that the gang may be watching. I don't care about anything other than the fact Guy is here, with me, alive. Not slashed to ribbons in the snow, not staring sightless at the night sky, not crushed and broken on the castle courtyard.

"It's never too late," I whisper fiercely.

I know now is not the time. We have been attacked, Guy is hurt, it is cold and the middle of the night, but I cannot think of any other way to show him that I believe there is good in him, as Marian did.

This time it is my lips that are insistent, my arms capturing, my tongue searching.

Guy caves into my care, gripping my upper arms so tightly that my injured arm begins to throb. But I will not ease him away or let him know he is hurting me, not now, not tonight.

"Let's get out of this damned forest," Guy murmurs.

I cannot agree with him more.

**to be continued...**


	13. The Night Before Tomorrow

**The Night Before Tomorrow**

"This is it! The King is here…well, nearly here. And not some dressed up impostor, but the real King Richard."

Much is all but jumping up and down in uncontained excitement.

"Just think. By this time tomorrow…or maybe today, because it could be past midnight by now, the—"

"Much," John says, low and threatening.

"What?"

"Pipe down."

John inclines his head at Guy, who I have left walking some way ahead of us.

"Sorry," Much says, "I didn't mean…but just think of it, the King, the actual King. Robin will get his lands and title back, and we'll get our pardons, and—"

_Every facile thought._

I bite my tongue; I have hurt my friend enough these past few weeks.

"Much!" Allan snaps.

"What?"

"Shut the hell up."

"But this is the news we've been waiting for. We should be celebrating. We should—"

"And so we shall, Much," I say. "But not until after I have met with Richard. Not until after I have spoken for all of you. And for Guy."

"Sorry," he says, flicking his eyes in Guy's direction. "I know I sometimes let my mouth get ahead of my brain, but—"

"Yeah, pity one never catches up with the other," Allan mumbles.

"It's all right, Much. I know how much this means to you, to all of you."

I have told the gang about Richard's imminent arrival in Nottingham. I have also told them about Christophe and his advance party, although I have left out the part about his personal relationship with our sovereign. Much says he's not surprised, that he always thought Christophe walked a fine line between decent and despicable.

I am watching my brutalised lover as he limps through the snow.

"I'm going to speak to Richard, John. I have to make him understand that Guy won't…that he isn't…"

John lays a kindly hand on my shoulder.

"All in good time, Robin. First, we must get you safely back to Locksley so you can tend to your wounds."

I shiver, as though a ghost has touched me.

"I'm going to walk with Guy," I tell him. Except that I don't. Instead, I stand very still, watching as Guy slowly disappears from sight.

Allan gives Much a hefty shove and the two men shuffle past me, quiet and subdued, following in Guy's snowy footsteps. I wait for John to follow them.

But rather than leave me to my ill-concealed misery, John says, "Come here", and, gently but firmly, pulls me into his broad chest, as if he might shield me from the realities of the choice I have made. He smells of wood-smoke and damp leaves.

"I thought…I thought they were going to kill him, John."

"I know."

"I can't be without him, not now."

"I know that, too."

Angry, shaken, I push John away.

I can do better than this, have to do better than this.

* * *

I catch up with Guy and offer him a supporting arm. He tells me "no", and immediately picks up his pace. It is too dark to see his face clearly, but something tells me he would prefer not to talk, at least not until we are behind closed doors. We fall into an uneasy silence.

The trudge back to Locksley seems to take forever. Quiet and watchful, the gang walks several paces in front of us, allowing Guy and me a modicum of privacy, even though we do not need it.

On reaching the house, it does not take me long to convince my friends that we would prefer to be left alone, at least for tonight.

At this, Much gives me a quick and slightly awkward hug, and then the three men begin the long walk back to the camp, doubtless retracing the footsteps we have just made, and probably walking with the same degree of solemnity and silence. What happened in the forest is not really fodder for light banter and it has certainly put a dampener on my good news of the King's return.

I watch until my friends are out of sight and close the door. I turn around to find the main hall empty and guess that Guy has gone upstairs.

* * *

One by one, I latch the door and the window shutters. I consider looking for something to eat, lighting a fire even, but, in truth, I know these are nothing more than excuses, that I am simply putting off the moment when I must deal with Guy and what just happened in the forest.

Determinedly, I track Guy's snowy boot-prints up the wide wooden staircase and push past the curtain into our door-less bedchamber.

Guy is sitting on the edge of the bed. The window shutters are open and I'm surprised there aren't icicles hanging from the ceiling. Wordlessly, I shut out the handful of village houses, the pond, the church and the mill, cursing the fact I have yet to mend the shutter's broken board and, for the first time, regretting not having a house servant around, other than the ever dutiful Elisabeth, who continues to stock our larder.

While I am busying myself, Guy simply sits, head bowed, doubtless waiting for me to minister to him. But the moment I crouch in front of him, with a bowl of water and a clean piece of cloth, he puts a restraining hand to my arm and I see he is biting back the tears.

I put the bowl and cloth aside.

"It's all right," I say, completely at a loss.

"No," Guy chokes. "It is not."

His hands whip up, clutch a fistful of my shirt, and I know there is more to this than what happened with Christophe.

"What is it?" I ask.

Guy sucks in a breath, his eyes fixed on my chest.

"There were four of them," he says.

"Four of who?"

"No." Guy shakes his head and lets go my shirt, thrusting his hands between his thighs, as though afraid they might do some damage.

"Four of who?" I repeat.

Guy simply stares at his lap, his long hair curtaining his face.

I slip my hands between his legs, in the hope that our familiar handholding might encourage him to tell me whatever it is that is troubling him.

"Tell me," I say. Because I want to know, and because I think it is important, a piece of the puzzle that is Guy of Gisborne.

Guy continues to stare at his lap, at our buried hands. He twists the ring on my finger, around and around.

I wait.

"They caught me, you see," Guy says, head still bowed. "Caught me stealing. But it was the only way. Isabella and I, we had nowhere to live, and we were hungry, and she didn't even have a winter's cloak."

I realise he is talking of his younger sister, and I presume he means when they went back to France, after his mother and father died.

"Who caught you?" I ask.

"I didn't know the place I'd tried to rob, or what their vulgar talk meant. I just wanted to get them off me. I knew how to fight, even managed to give one of them a bloody nose. But they were too strong, and I was weak from hunger. They had me cornered, and—"

"Go on," I say.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

Guy lifts his head, and momentarily releases my hand to push back his long hair. He is trying very hard not to cry and, when I lean in to give him a gentle kiss, he does.

I realise I have pushed too far. Sharing intimacies of the flesh does not give me the right to know everything there is to know about my lover. God knows, I keep enough secrets of my own.

I ease Guy's head to my chest, the way John did me, say, "It's all right. You don't have to tell me, not if you don't want to."

Rather than quelling his tears, my words only serve to make Guy sob all the more, and I recall the other occasion when he had unburdened himself like this. It was in the forest, shortly after we had shared our first kiss, when Guy had confessed to his fear of destroying me the way he had Marian, when I had not known whether I was destined to become his lover or simply someone he could confide in.

"Why don't you let me look at that leg," I say.

"No!" Guy straightens up, swiping at his tear-streaked face. "Let me finish this now."

I sit back on my haunches, wait with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity, while Guy composes himself.

"There was a young man. I don't know where he came from, but when he saw what was going on he tried to help me. He was good, good with his fists, but the brutes fought him off and flung him through the window, into the street."

"What were they doing to you?"

"They were buggering me," Guy says. His tear-shot blue eyes lock onto mine, and I am reminded of the two of us, downstairs, and of that flash of fear in his eyes, just before he turned and faced the fireside rug.

_So, not Vaisey after all._

"Go on."

"When it was over, they left me, naked and bleeding. At first, I was too ashamed to go back to Isabella. And when I did return, empty-handed, she spat at me and said I was a useless, worthless piece of nothing.

I'd never been so frightened in my life, Robin."

I think of Christophe, egging the crusaders on, of his heavy boot grinding into Guy's bare chest, pressing him into the icy snow, and the blade, a hands-width away from Guy's private parts.

"And yet you want this," I say, resting my hand on his leathered thigh. "You want to be with me, like this. I don't understand."

"You're not like them."

"No? Then what am I like?"

He leans in, kisses me. It is a desperate kiss, and it hides a truth.

"There's more? Tell me."

Guy touches my face, smiles.

"What?" I am annoyed that for all his frank revelations, there is still something else, something that concerns me.

"You've got a nerve, you know," Guy says. "Asking all these damn questions, when you never talk yourself."

"All right, don't tell me."

I make to stand and Guy grabs me, pulling me back onto my knees.

"But you are a good listener," he says.

"That's not what Much would say."

"Well, he's not me, is he?"

"For which I'm sure he's eternally grateful. So, go on."

"Afterwards, I went back, I don't know why, revenge perhaps. And I met the young man, the one who tried to fight those men off me. When he found out what I was going to do, he said he would help me, but only on the condition that nobody got killed. I agreed, and we ended up with enough coin for me to buy Isabella that winter's cloak and a lot more besides. He taught me how to survive that winter, and not only that, but how to flourish as well. He also taught me that what those men did to me didn't have to be like that." Guy gives me a meaningful look. "I ended it, of course, after Isabella found out. She threatened…well, it doesn't matter. We came back to England and I buried it. It became just another one of my many sins. Another one I hoped Marian would wash away."

"I still don't understand. How could you want any part of it after those men hurt you like that?"

Guy's eyes flicker at the hateful memory and I wonder if I have asked one question too many. But what is said cannot be unsaid and, besides, I did say I wanted to know all there is to know.

"I can't explain. I hated what they did, would gladly have run them all through, and yet…there was a part of me that didn't dislike it." Guy looks down at my ringed hand, still resting on his thigh, quietly says, "I know that sounds sick."

I think of those battle-weary evenings in the Holy Land, sitting around wine-stained tables, of the knights and their debauched tails of men with men, and of my own unholy desires.

"There's something else?" I say.

Guy smiles, softly, as if thinking of happier times.

"When you swaggered into Locksley, with your bow slung across your shoulders, acting as if you didn't have a care in the world. When you said to the Sheriff that if you told him where you were, could you claim the 20 pounds reward money for yourself, you reminded me of him. You had that same cocky air about you, as if nothing could touch you, as if…"

"As if arrows could bounce off me?" I suggest.

"Exactly."

"Is that when you knew you wanted me, like this I mean?"

"No. I'd put all that behind me. And besides, there was too much at stake. I wanted power, and money, and lands, and I wasn't prepared to let anything get in the way of that. And then, of course, there was Marian."

"So, when did you change your mind?"

"In Étienne, in the barn."

_What's the matter, Locksley? Frightened I might jump you in the night?_

Guy had been drunk, so had I. I wish we hadn't been drunk. I wish I'd said, "Would you like to?" I wish we had fucked there and then, in the straw, while the gang slept oblivious below us. It certainly would have saved weeks of agonising, weeks of should I, shouldn't I?

"Is that why you went away?"

"Yes."

"But you changed your mind, came back?"

"I had no choice. I wanted you, just as I wanted—"

I still his words with a kiss. We have always been a threesome – him, my ethereal Marian, and me. But tonight it is just the two of us; I will make it just the two of us. Of course, he might have been talking about the young man, whose name I may never know.

Guy relaxes into me, his breaths warm and steady. I think he has wanted to tell me this since our first night together. Perhaps he knew I had always assumed it was the dead sheriff who had sodomised him and he wanted to dispel that particular myth, or perhaps he just wanted to tell me because he was through with secrets and lies.

He guides my ringed hand between his legs, moves it backwards and forwards, tilts his head back and closes his eyes. I watch the rise and fall of his chest, feel the increasing bulge in his leathers. My free hand finds my own response and for a short while we sit, the only sounds that of our increasingly rapid breaths, as I work both him and myself.

In the distance an owl hoots and is answered, reminding me of the forest and of that snowy clearing, once pristine, now boot-churned and blood-spattered.

Reluctantly, I stop.

"What?" Guy snaps.

"Guy, apart from the fact that there's a little too much material involved here, I really think I should look at that leg of yours."

"I'm sure there's no need, Robin. After all, what's a little blood between friends?"

"It could be more than a little. I saw that knife. And besides, think of the mess it'll make."

"You'd make a very good wife, do you know that."

"I have no intention of becoming your wife, Guy," I say. I start to unbuckle his belt.

Guy grins. "Huh! You could have fooled me." He grabs my wrist.

"Before you perform whatever surgery you're about to perform on me, Robin, we need to talk about tomorrow."

"Tomorrow can wait," I tell him. "Now, let go of me."

"No!" His grip tightens. "It cannot. Robin, both you and I know it will not go away. The King is here, is coming here, to Locksley. I know you say you will speak for me, and I know you consider Richard to be a fair and reasonable man, but we have to face facts. Treason is a grave crime, punishable by death, and you know that I have always been prepared to face the consequences of my actions."

I think perhaps he is talking of Marian and not his attempt on Richard's life.

"Guy, there's no need—"

"No, hear me out. I will not run and hide. I will face whatever it is I have to face and willingly. And if, by the grace of God, I am to be spared, then you know as well as I that King Richard will be making demands of you to help him win back his castle and his lands."

"But—"

"And you also know," Guy continues, "that I will do whatever it is that is asked of me. Not because I have suddenly pledged my undying loyalty to the King, but because I am pledging it to you.

"Very well," I say. "Now will you please let go my arm before you snap it in two."

"Sorry."

I pick up the water bowl and cloth. Determinedly, Guy prises both from my hands and puts them aside.

"Guy, don't be stupid. I need to—"

"No. What I really wanted to say is that the King of England is coming, tomorrow, and whatever happens, this could be our last night together."

"Don't say that. Don't even think it."

Guy shakes his head, as though I'm not getting it. "Robin, not everything is in your control. Not everything in life is a choice, despite whatever Marian may once have said."

"I didn't say—"

"Please, Robin. Give us this night, make it count."

I nod, unable to deny him anything, after everything he's just been through.

Guy stands and skirts around to the other side of the bed, his side. He starts to undress and I start to do likewise.

This feels awkward. I am self-conscious. Of all the times we have fucked, it has either been in an impassioned frenzy, when clothes have been torn off in a great hurry, or we have done it semi-naked. Undressing slowly, in front of each other, is something new for us.

If Guy were a woman, if he were Marian, I would be undressing him, but it doesn't feel right somehow, to be doing that to Guy. In fact, it doesn't feel right to be watching him. And when we are both down to just our breeches Guy turns away from me and I'm not sure whether to laugh or be grateful.

With his back to me, I can appraise him openly. I notice he has a thin, white scar on his lower back. I also notice he has a small brown mole on his right buttock. I imagine myself creeping up on him, wrapping my arms around his muscular body and taking him there and then.

_Best cock lover._

I still have an overwhelming desire to kill Christophe.

Guy turns around and walks back to my side of the bed.

"You're not undressed," he says, tugging provocatively at my breeches.

"Because you're still bleeding." I point at the crude, blood-soaked bandage. "Now, for God's sake sit down and let me see to it."

Guy returns to the edge of the bed. I kneel in front of him and unwind the scarf from around his thigh. With studied concentration, I wipe at the congealed blood surrounding the cut.

"It might need stitches."

"Leave it," Guy says. He leans forwards and lightly brushes my lips with his. He is trembling and it doesn't feel like desire. I pull away, in time to see, not a man ahead of me in years, but the Guy of my youth; angry, yet at the same time, vulnerable, frightened even, despite doing his best not to show it.

"I thought I was done for," Guy croaks, indicating his lap. "I thought—"

"Christophe will get what he deserves," I promise. "Richard will learn what kind of man he has commanding his troops."

Guy clears his throat, straightens up, and says, "You were stupid though, trying to make a grab for your bow. I know you're good, but you could never have taken on the lot of them."

"I'd have given it my best shot," I smile.

"This is nothing," Guy says gruffly. "It is my pride that is the more wounded, that is all."

He jerks to his feet.

"Guy?"

"I need a bloody drink."

He kicks over the water bowl on his way out the bedchamber.

For a moment I consider going after him but change my mind. I think I need to let Guy deal with what has happened this evening in his own way and in his own time, and if that means getting drunk then so be it.

* * *

He is not gone long. Pushing the half-burned candle to one side, he sets a jug of wine and a cup on the table by the bed.

"To us," Guy says. He drinks, empties his cup and refills it. He pours a cup for me.

I'm not really in the mood to drink, but if Guy's going to, then I guess I might as well join him.

"To us," I echo.

It is good wine. And it doesn't taste of grief, or fear, or anger. It doesn't taste of the past but of the future, a future I am determined to make happen.

"Now," Guy says, prising the empty cup from my hands and wiping his chin, "where were we?"

His warm tongue enters my mouth, insistent, demanding. A hand snakes between my legs, and there it is again, that want, that instant flash of need he provokes in me.

"Let's fuck," Guy says.

Standing, I undo my belt and laces, and ease my breeches down to my ankles, kick them away.

I sit on the bed and lightly touch the red blotches on Guy's chest and stomach.

"Are you sure you're all right with this?"

"It's fine, Robin. They didn't kick me as hard they could have. Something tells me their hearts weren't entirely in it. Not that I was going to let them, or that bastard, know that."

"Still, your leg?"

"Believe me, I've had worse."

I'm sure I should argue the point further, but it is becoming clear we both have more pressing needs.

Guy runs a finger along the length of my hardening cock and I push him towards the mattress. I don't think to ask who's doing what because tonight we are each out for ourselves; we will take what we want because, despite my wine-fuelled optimism, tomorrow it could all end.

Guy turns and lies face down on the bed, legs apart, hands clutching the sheet. I smile at the mole on his backside, a tiny brown island in a sea of pale flesh. My spit tastes of wine. I insert a finger, wait until he settles, and then insert another.

Guy grunts, heaves himself up, and throws me off the bed.

"Guy! What do you think you're doing?"

He turns over, grabs my arms, and hauls me back onto the bed.

"No," he says. "Tonight we do it my way, make it count."

"So, what do you want—"

"Slowly."

* * *

We sit on the bed, facing each other, as we have done before. In between us our history still sits, all that scary stuff: his and my crimes, Vaisey, King Richard, Marian. Only it's not so scary anymore, not now we know each other better, not now we have this.

Despite my body's demands, I have agreed to do this Guy's way. I think the drink is not out of habit tonight. He needs it as a way of calming down, of finding his way back to me after Christophe's violent assault. Even so, I ache to get on with it.

I gulp the wine and almost choke.

Guy grins. I think he knows what this is doing to me. I think he's enjoying making me wait. It's a cruelty in him I have come to understand, welcome even.

"Guy, I—"

"Do you think I could get me one of these," he interrupts, reaching for my tag and turning it over in his hand.

"Really?"

"It might help to convince King Richard that I'm on your side."

"Hmm, it might also look like something else. Speaking of which—"

I put my cup aside and work the ring off my finger.

"Just until I've sorted things, all right."

Guy nods.

"Now," I say, "don't you think it's time…"

I prise the drink from his hand and press a palm to his chest.

"And Guy?"

"What?"

"No sudden movements this time, all right?"

I slip the tag over my head and lay it next to the ring.

Guy smiles and settles his head on the pillow.

I want him, badly. I want his mouth, his cock, but especially those hands of his; those hands that thrash in the night when he is in the throes of a nightmare, hands that clench and unclench whenever he fails to make himself understood, and hands that know how to touch me, where to touch me.

I look down at the man pinned underneath me.

"Bit late to decide you don't like what you see, isn't it," Guy grins.

I'd like to think I have a clever answer to everything, but then having a naked man between my legs has hardly been an everyday occurrence.

"Just looking," I say.

I lean forwards and run a trail of hot kisses down his neck and chest. I pause at the hollow of his inner thigh. It's payback time and now he can wait. I grin at his small grunt of annoyance and continue to run my wine-tainted tongue down his hairy thighs, licking the smears of blood I missed earlier. I know how to pleasure a woman, have no idea if the same will work with a man. I don't care. If Guy's quickening breaths are anything to go by, I seem to be doing all right and hell, if all else fails, I'll make it up. Either way, Guy Crispin Gisborne is about to have the best fuck of his life.

And with any luck, so am I.

"Robin?"

"Mmm?" My mouth is teasing his nipples, while my hands are occupied elsewhere.

"Not so fast. Not so—"

Guy groans, either in pleasure or frustration, I'm not sure which.

"Slowly", he had said.

It's no good, I can't do that. My need is immediate and now. And it is also something else tonight. I want to be dirty with him, dirty and feral. I want to go to the edge – beyond – if that is possible.

I am a good person and always have been. But this is my shadow side and fucking Guy is better than killing anyone, hands down better.

"Now," I hiss, sprawling on top of him.

I claw my hands through his hair, love that it is long, and try not to think why that is.

"Let me hear you beg," I say.

"What?"

"Tell me you want me, you filthy bastard."

Our eyes meet, drink each other in. Guy grins, wolfishly.

Emitting a low growl, he clamps his hands around my ribcage and flips me over so I am face down. He straddles my legs, burying me into the mattress.

"You want me inside you?" he asks.

"Yes."

"You want me to fuck you till it hurts?"

"Yes."

"Then let me hear _you_ beg."

I ready myself for his probing fingers.

Instead, Guy drags me over, slides a wet tongue down the length of my body, and takes me in his mouth.

I clamp my lips against the helpless whimper bubbling in my throat. I will not surrender – not yet. Because, suddenly, this has become a game. And I like to win. In my head I start to count, in Latin: unus, duo, tres, quattuor, quinque, sex – oh, hell. French then.

I am saved as Guy lets go and wriggles up the bed, until we are face-to-face. He kisses me, sharing my taste. Clutching a fistful of my hair with one hand, he slides his other hand to my groin. He touches me, brings a finger to his mouth, licks, and grins.

"How much longer then, outlaw?"

"Longer than you, you swine."

Again, our eyes meet and this time something unspoken passes between us. The challenge is on.

Heated skin slaps against heated skin. This has become a fight – a fight for dominance. It is also becoming the fight I imagined, dreamt about – no longer on the forest floor, but here, on this bed, in my house.

_Feral._

We are kissing and biting, scars and split skin and ruined tattoos all but forgotten. We roll across the bed and crash onto the floor.

Guy is on top of me, both hands pressing onto my shoulder blades. He leans down and forces his tongue into my mouth. His kisses are hard and punishing and I can taste blood mingling with the wine and my sex.

I like it. I like that all my hate and hurt, all my past failings, are obliterated by his touch and by my dark and dangerous desires.

Guy laughs and returns his mouth to where I want it most. I bury my hands in his hair and am just deciding that maybe Robin Hood can lose once in a while, when Guy lets go of me.

He worms his way up my agonised flesh until our noses touch.

I stare into his eyes, dark and desirous.

I know what I want now.

_The edge – beyond – if that is possible._

I nip his lower lip, bite, and taste blood.

Guy jerks back, looks at me, long and hard.

"So you want to play rough?"

"More than that," I manage.

"What?"

He pushes up onto his hands, regards me. I look at his powerful biceps, and at the fine, dark hairs on his lower arms.

"You know," I say, unable to meet his eye.

"No, I—"

I struggle against his weight, but I'm not strong enough. I wrap my legs around his. No good. Only my mouth is free and I can't say the words.

"The forest?" Guy says.

"The forest, what?"

"That day, in the forest. You took me to where we had a bloody great fight. You took me there and then did nothing. Why? Why did you take me there?"

He has asked the right question. All I need do is answer. Why am I so useless with words, at saying what I want, how I feel? I couldn't do it with her, and I can't do it with him.

"Sixth letter of the alphabet."

Guy stares at me, incredulous.

"You want us to fight?"

"Yes."

I can sense him weighing it up.

"I'll hurt you," he says.

"I know. I don't care."

And I don't. Because this is the fight that has been owing between us since the day I kissed Marian for the last time. Not that wretched moment when I first saw him on the boat and tried to throw him overboard. Not the solitary whack I gave him following the archery contest, in France. Not even the desultory attempt I made to kill him in the meadow, at Étienne, before we saw the young girl. No. The fight I want is the one I had with Allan, in the dead sheriff's cabin. The only difference being, I want to end up with something a bit sexier than a bloody nose.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," Guy says, hooking his hands under my armpits. With a rough jerk he yanks me to my feet and slams me against the bed, cracking my shins on the hard wooden edge.

In false retaliation, I shove him backwards.

"I get it," he says, laughing darkly.

And already I sense the danger of the game we're about to play – my sordid little fantasy.

"Guy, I—"

"You want to fight and fuck," he says. "Dirty, filthy, Robin Hood. Lost his good lady. Time to be bad, just like me. I always said there were things I didn't know about you, Locksley."

He surges forward, slams into me. I crash into the bedside table. Wine and candle wax splatter onto my bare legs.

Scrabbling to my feet, I nimbly duck an out-swung fist.

Guy spins on his heel, lashes out blindly and catches my injured arm.

Anger replaces fear. I slam a fist into his side.

He staggers, rights himself, and comes at me again.

"Is this what you want, outlaw!"

Without the candle's light, the room is in near darkness. But the edge in his voice tells me what I am already afraid of; this is no longer a game to him.

The force of him crashing into me takes us both to the floor. He pins my arms. Splinters are digging into my exposed flesh. Something wet is on my back. Spilled wine.

Guy looms over me, hair everywhere, eyes ablaze.

"It was your fault, Hood. Yours. She was my chance, my only chance, and I lost her because of you."

We are back to Marian, and I see what I have done.

_I still have my doubts, still don't know if this will be my undoing._

My undoing.

Not him – her.

"Guy!"

Desperate to bring this down and get it back to where I want it to go, I twist and claw my way out from under him. Guy grabs my ankle, pulling me back. I pretend to relax. His grip lessens. I swivel around and throw myself on top of him. He grunts in pain and I guess I have smacked into his sore ribs. Guiltily, I ease away. Guy sees his chance, frees an arm and slams a fist into my scarred side. He tips me off him and my face smacks into the spiteful wooden floorboards. A waft of heady red wine and candle wax fills my nostrils. I wince, lift my head, and wonder if I might end up with nothing more than a bloody nose after all.

Guy is kneeling on my back, his hard knees digging into my ribs, winding me. But lack of air is the last thing I need worry about, as I see him plunge a hand under my pillow. He wrenches my injured arm behind my back and my ensuing cry buries itself into the soiled floorboards.

"I have you now," he growls, the knife at my throat.

And for the briefest moment, I think he is going to kill me.

I have gone too far. Guy once said he'd be bad for me, that he'd destroy me. It seems he's about to be proved right. Because I had forgotten. Forgotten how easily he can snap. Of course, I have my own dark and vicious side.

_You're as violent as the next man._

But I know when to stop, how to control it.

Not him. Not Guy.

I should not have forgotten this about him.

Marian forgot, too.

"Want to know how it felt. To be at their mercy?" he snarls.

I know he is not talking about Christophe.

Guy has moved beyond my game, gone to that dark place he often inhabits. I am losing him and, if I am not careful, I am also about to lose my life.

He grips my upper arms, yanks me to my feet and pushes me, fast and furious, until I smack into the wall.

"Beg! Robin Hood."

His face is so close to mine we could kiss.

"Guy, I'm not them. I'm not Christophe. I'm sorry, all right. What on earth would Marian say if she could see us now?"

I know I should not bring Marian into this, but she is the only thing I can think of that might bring him to his senses.

The knife slips from my neck.

"She should have been mine," Guy anguishes.

I cry out, buckle, and my knees smack onto the unforgiving floorboards.

"Christ's blood, no."

Guy crouches in front of me. He looks at my bloody leg and then at the equally bloody knife. With an agonised cry he hurls the knife away and it thuds into the far wall.

Guy's breaths are ragged, his eyes wide in horror.

"It's all right. I'm all right."

I kiss him, bury my hands in his hair, desperate to make amends.

"Robin. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It wasn't your fault. I started it."

"Let me see," he says.

I look at the crimson slash on my thigh and then at his. How could I have been so stupid?

"I'm sorry, Guy. Really I am. I don't know what possessed—"

"Shush," he whispers.

He slides his hands around my neck, kisses me. He is trembling, as am I. I wrap my arms tightly around him and press into his naked flesh. He smells of blood and sweat and drink. He smells of desire.

"You still want this?" he asks.

"Yes."

He buries his hands in my hair, runs bloodied fingers down my sweat soaked skin.

"You are mine and I am yours," he whispers hotly in my ear. "Joined by blood – ours and hers."

I cup his ball-sack, rock against him.

Rough laughter escapes his lips.

"Still want to be dirty?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Good."

Jerking me to my feet, Guy spins me around and shoves my face into the wall. He grips my upper arms, digging his fingernails into my flesh, forgetting my damaged arm. I don't care. All I can feel is his hot, naked flesh pressing into mine. I taste wood. He enters me. I gasp. No spit, no warning. Hot, hard, wet and wanting. Dirty, filthy lust.

His thrusts drive me into the wall, repeatedly. I don't ask him to stop. It's no more than I deserve.

I'm aware of his hands, bracing against the wooden boards either side of my head.

He tenses.

"Sweet Mother of God!" he cries. He leans heavily into my back, forcing my cock into the wall while his spilled lust slips warmly down my inner thigh.

I can feel my own release building and building.

Easing away, Guy's hand finds me. "Let me hear you," he whispers.

And I am there. I have reached that edge – that painful, delicious, all-encompassing edge.

I close my eyes – break – and open them in time to see my own lust trickling down the wall.

* * *

"Was that the fuck you had in mind," Guy asks.

I am leaning against the wall, breathing hard.

"Sort of."

"And I thought I was the dangerous one," he laughs.

We walk back to the bed, stepping over flecks of blood, spilled wine, and yet another broken table.

"Remind me to do it your way in future," I say.

* * *

Battered and bloody, we are lying in bed, under a pile of thick blankets. Guy has his arms around me. He is asleep.

Through the broken shutter I can see the grainy light of dawn.

My roughly bandaged leg is throbbing. I try to make myself more comfortable. Guy stirs and opens his eyes. He pushes back my hair and gazes into my eyes. He smiles, kisses me, long and hard. He says something, but the words are lost in my mouth. I think he is telling me he loves me but I cannot be sure, because his words are muffled by our kiss and I will not ask him to repeat them. Those words belong only to Marian, to my wife. He cannot, must not, say them. And yet. The King comes tomorrow – correction – today. I do not know what will happen. Not everything is in my control. Not everything is a choice.

Guy goes to say more. I block his words with a fierce kiss, hold him tighter than the moment merits, and push away the thoughts of running and battlements, of swords and arrows, of falling through the air and of those unforgiving cobbles on castle courtyard.

**to be continued…**


	14. An Audience With the King

**An Audience With the King**

It is tomorrow.

I can hear birdsong. And rain.

Guy is lying next to me, asleep. One of his arms is draped across my chest. His head is wedged under my armpit. For a short, sleepy moment I play with a strand of his hair. And then I wake up a bit more and let go, quickly, as if I've been caught doing something I shouldn't. I tell myself it should be Marian's brunette locks, running through my fingers. And the sad thing is, I know this should hurt. But it doesn't.

Guy sighs, shifts his head and, still asleep, presses his nose into my ribs.

I smile, close my tired eyes, and listen to the rain's steady drumming on the window's wooden overhang. It makes me think of April showers, even though we are still several days short of March. I can smell it, seeping through the broken shutter; that dank, earthy smell of soil and of things growing, pushing through the mud and the snow. The promise of spring.

But there is another smell in this room today, stronger than spring. It is the rust-and-salt odour of spilled blood, Guy's and mine, along with a decent helping of sleep-charged maleness and wine. It reminds me of Acre, of the countless times we crusaders lay in our tents, tired and dirty, often in pain, our bones smashed and our flesh torn; of men crying, men showing off their battle wounds, men drunk with fatigue, and men I might have lain with had I known myself better.

I turn to look at the man lying next to me.

Last night we went to the edge – and survived. I had always thought Marian would be the cause of the death of one or other of us. I was wrong. She had saved us on the boat and she had saved us last night. And in some unfathomable way, I think our fight has brought Guy and me closer together. Even so, I don't want to go there again. Not ever.

After his mumbled endearments, and those painful images of running and battlements and bloodstained cobblestones, Guy had fallen back to sleep. Not me, though. I needed to think. I needed to make plans. I needed to think about the coming day, and my king, Richard the Lionheart.

Carefully, I lift Guy's warm arm from my chest and work my way up the bed, until I am leaning against the wooden headboard.

Look at him, this man I sleep with, eat and drink with, share my body with. Closed and guarded much of the time, slowly opening up to me, layer by layer, like an onion being peeled. I think I am finally getting to the core of him, that part that Marian knew was there, but never quite managed to unearth. It makes me wonder. If she had succeeded, what difference would it have made? Would Guy have been able to throw off the shackles of Vaisey and become a better man? And, if so, would it have made Marian's choice even more difficult? Would turning Guy to the good meant I would still have lost her in the end – lost her to the man I now share my life with?

I know these questions have no answers. And I also know that a lot of my questions stem from guilt - guilt that I didn't try harder, both as the young Lord of Locksley and when I returned from the war. But Guy was just one man and there were bigger things at stake. There have always been bigger things at stake.

I rub my temples, not sure if it is the wine or my wretched thoughts making my head hurt. I need to piss, badly.

Still eyeing Guy, I flip back my portion of blanket and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Guy mumbles something, and his hand lazily pats the warm indentation of my sleeping place. His eyes snap open. Bewildered, his gaze falls on the knife still stuck in the wall.

"Sorry," I say, not only for waking him, even though it is more than time to rise, but also for last night's madness.

Guy blows a relieved breath and slides across the bed. He sits up and leans into my back, encircling me with his arms.

"What?" I ask.

"I thought maybe you wouldn't be here," he says.

"Why would you think that?"

He waves a hand in the direction of the knife.

"Oh…well…like you said. What's a little blood between friends."

I turn in his arms and give him a light kiss on the cheek.

"I'm sorry, Guy, about last night. I don't know what came over me."

"Well, you did once say you never do things by halves. Although it might be best if you give me more of a warning next time."

"Don't worry. I'll make sure there isn't a next time."

"It was a good fuck though," Guy says, grinning at me in a way that makes me think he is willing to take the risk.

Ignoring the blatant invitation, I grasp both his arms and, gently but firmly, push them down to his sides. Slipping off the bed, I scoop up my clothes.

"We'd best get moving," I tell him. "Otherwise the King of England is going to catch me in a very compromising position."

Guy snatches my breeches from my hand. "Just a bit longer," he says, tossing my breeches aside and yanking me back onto the bed.

In truth, I can think of nothing better than indulging with Guy while the rain batters the roof and timbers.

"No, Guy. I have to get ready. The King could arrive at any moment, this room looks like a battlefield, and I need to piss."

"Please," he says, grasping my other arm and pleading with his eyes in the way Marian used to whenever she wanted something out of me, proof, if ever proof were needed, that during their own forms of self-imprisonment in the castle, they had rubbed off on each other more than I had previously realised.

"Guy. If you don't want more than blood in the mix, you'd best let go of me."

He considers. His lips twitch, briefly.

"You had your turn," he says.

"What?"

"Last night."

I'm not quite sure what he's getting at, but there's a look in his eye that tells me that last night is about to have consequences.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I want you to stay here."

He slumps onto the bloodstained sheet, pulling me down with him.

"Guy, I—"

"No," he says. "Stay." He slides both his arms behind my back, pinning me to his warm chest.

"Guy," I say, smiling as a flurry of kisses chase across my lips, face and neck, "you're living very dangerously here."

"I never imagined it would be otherwise. Being with you, I mean."

"And there's me thinking it's my boyish charm."

"Don't flatter yourself."

"Guy, I really think I—"

"No. Not yet." He runs his moist, warm tongue through my chest hairs and I know he'll move onto my nipples next and I'll be one step closer to surrender.

"Guy, please. I'm getting a little desperate here."

"Well, go on then."

I look at him, aghast. There is an anticipatory glint in his eyes and I see what I have done. Last night I changed the rules, gave us permission to experiment. I am both appalled and excited. My heart speeds up.

"Seriously?" I say.

"Humour me."

"Why should I?"

"Because we may not get another chance."

"Don't say that," I admonish.

"I have to say it. Come on, Robin. Indulge me. One little fantasy. You had yours."

"You've fantasised, about this?"

"Haven't you?"

"No, I bloody well haven't. Anyway, why this?"

"Why not?"

"Because the King of England is coming here – today. Christophe said Richard's thinking of using the village for his garrison. That means he'll want the manor house too. Hell, he might even decide to sleep in this bed. What's he going to think? And besides, it'll be cold," I finish lamely, because I'm already thinking about it.

"It'll be warm to start with."

"No, I can't, Guy. Seriously, I can't."

"But you are _stirred_ by the thought, aren't you?"

"No, I am not."

Guy slides a hand to my groin. "I beg to differ," he grins.

It's true. I am. I absolutely, disgustingly, am.

"Listen, Guy. Just because I asked you to engage in something not only reckless but also incredibly stupid last night, that doesn't mean we have to—"

"This is hardly dangerous, Robin."

"No. But it is stupid. Or at least I will be if you insist on—"

"I do, _insist_."

His fingers tighten around my injured arm and I know it will not take much for him to hurt me, last night alone was proof of that.

"For me," Guy says. His fingers slip to my inner thigh, begin to stroke. "Do something just for me."

"I can't."

Sliding a hand behind my neck, Guy pulls me towards him. "I think maybe you can."

Our lips meet and he pushes his tongue into my mouth. I taste wine, and want, and last night's sordid little game – both the pain and the subsequent pleasure. Would it be so much to repay him for granting me that?

Guy opens his eyes: blue, like the summer sky, silently pleading.

I breathe in, nod, and say, "If we do this, it'll be just this one time, and we'll never talk about it again."

"Never," Guy murmurs.

Keeping one hand firmly clasped on the back of my neck, Guy slides his other hand down to my buttocks. He pushes a finger in, and then out, and then in again; not too far, just enough to make it impossible for me not to do anything he asks.

I close my eyes, concentrate.

The birds are too loud and Guy's probing finger has me hardening. Neither is helping matters.

"Take your hand away," I tell him.

He moves the offending hand to the middle of my back, continues the circling motion with the pads of his fingers.

"You're not even trying," Guy says.

"Well, _you_ try it then," I growl. I am ridiculously angry, both because I can't do what he's asking me to do, and because I think that this might be less about sex and more about Guy wanting to see me lose control.

"Here. Let me," he grins. He rolls us over.

I relax back onto the sheet and gratefully surrender to his care. Last night's brutality is forgotten. This morning, it is all about soft kisses, gentle caresses, and whispered longings. And, at this very moment, I know I would do anything – will do anything – to let him know that I care about him, really care.

"No," I say, grasping his wrist and stilling his hand. "Let me."

Guy slides out from under me and I lay on top of him. I can feel the hard bone of his hips, nudging mine. I wedge my cold feet in between his equally cold ones.

"You're sure?" he asks.

"Yes. I'm sure."

And I am, surer than I've ever been in my life. Because no one, not the gang, not my people, not Christophe, not even the King of England, is going to rob me of this man.

The words 'I love you' bubble on my tongue. Guy has closed his eyes and is busy touching himself, his rapid breaths blowing hotly on my neck.

Another time, Robin, I tell myself, concentrating instead on the rain, which has gone from a steady thrumming to a gentle drip, drip, drip on the window's wooden overhang.

* * *

"I thought we would have more time," Guy says.

I have thrown open the shutters so I can keep an eye on the comings and goings outside.

"Come away," I say, tugging on his arm.

There are horsemen, heading down the hill towards Locksley. I watch as they make their way past the church, the mill, skirt the pond and make for the house.

I laugh. Even though they are dressed in commoner's clothing it is obvious these men are not villagers.

They come closer and I recognise the middle of the three riders as being King Richard. I'm surprised. Despite Christophe's assertion that Richard would be coming to Locksley, I was certain a representative would precede him. Then again, Richard always was one for dealing with things personally.

I don't recognise the other two men flanking the King, although I concede it has been some time since I was in the King's private guard and men come and go all the time, especially in times of war. They are wearing hoods, as is the King, but I can see enough of their faces to know that unless Christophe has grown a beard overnight, he is not one of the men presently dismounting their horses.

"Is it…?"

"Yes, Guy. It's Richard. I don't recognise the other two."

Guy visibly relaxes, doubtless as relieved as me that he will not have to face Christophe so soon after last evening's cruel encounter. He quickly and quietly finishes dressing, while I pull on my boots. It was lucky our somewhat awkward shedding of clothes last night meant I had not hastily dropped them on the floor, as is my usual custom. If I had, then they might have ended up in a similar state to the bed.

Guy follows my eyes to soiled sheets.

"What do you—"

"Get rid of them," I say quickly.

I limp across the wine-stained, blood-splattered floorboards and, with a sharp tug, pull my knife from the wall. Ignoring the dried blood, I shove the blade into the sheath attached to my belt.

Guy watches me. "I'm really sorry, Robin. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"I know you didn't."

With deliberate strides, I return to the window.

The rain is heavy again, turning the once pristine snow into a pale brown slush. I think of the gang, huddling in the camp. Much will be moaning about everything being wet, John will be glaring at him, and Allan will be making stupid jokes about a bit of water never hurting anyone. I feel sorry for them; living in the forest is tough. But I know that nothing I say will convince them to move to the house. My friends can only forgive so much.

"Robin?"

"Yes?"

"What if he wants you?"

"What?"

I turn around. Guy is clenching his fists, something he does whenever he is anxious or angry.

"I was there, Robin. I heard what Christophe said. What if the King wants to make a bargain with you, in exchange for sparing me?"

"Guy, I'm strictly yours, you know that."

"And he is the King of England, Robin. You took an oath, remember?"

"Yes, to serve my country, not to service King Richard."

"Even so. Won't you let me talk to him?"

"No."

"Why not? It's my life we're talking about here."

"Exactly. And that temper of yours could be the ending of it."

As if to bear out my words, Guy looks from the floor, to the bed and finally to the far wall, doubtless still bearing the liquid trace of my shameless capitulation last night.

"What would Marian say?" he says, quietly.

"She would say we are both fools, and she would be right. But she is dead, Guy, and we are left with this."

"And is this enough, Robin?"

"It will have to be," I say.

I check that Richard and his men are still busy tethering the horses, and slip my arms around Guy's waist. I love the way we are almost the same height.

"I will find a way of convincing Richard," I say. "Trust me."

"Huh."

"What does 'huh' mean?"

"Well, let's just say you've been a little unpredictable of late. I wouldn't put it past you to use your charms, such as they are."

"Oh, so you admit. I have charms?" I go to kiss Guy and miss his mouth as he offers me a cheek instead.

"You are also insufferably arrogant at times. No wonder Marian—"

"No wonder Marian what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

Guy pushes me away and lets his arms hang disconsolately at his sides. He looks small, and sad, as if he wishes more than anything that the King of England was not about to set foot in this house – our home.

"Listen, Guy. It won't come to that. All I'm going to do is plead your case. Believe me, this is the perfect time. At the moment, Richard will be far more concerned with getting his castle and lands back than punishing you for what happened in Acre. And if I can convince him that you were only acting under the Sheriff's orders—"

"I was."

"And that you were not a man to renege on your loyalty, however misplaced that loyalty might have been, then I do think the King might consider my request for clemency."

Guy smiles.

"What?"

"Something tells me you've been practising this little speech of yours, Robin."

"Well, what else is a man to do after being stabbed in the leg and fucked senseless up against a wall."

"Good wall, though," Guy says.

Now it's my turn to smile.

"Even so, Robin, I think you place too much faith in this king of yours."

"He is your king too, Guy."

"And he will have my support, if that's what I must do. Now, won't you let me come downstairs with you?"

"No. I want you to stay here, out of sight. I've spent a lot of time with Richard, as you know, and he can be as unpredictable as our weather. But if all goes well, then I can present you, soon."

"And if all doesn't go well?"

"Then we will think again."

"I told you, Robin. I am willing to face whatever it is I have to face."

"And I told you that I want you safe. So let me deal with this. Now, stay here and keep quiet. With any luck this will not take long."

There is a painful moment, a moment when all my certainties desert me, and I wonder if this is the last time we will speak. Should I tell him? Should I say those three little words?

"Good luck," Guy says. He takes a step forwards and I think he is about to kiss me but, instead, he checks himself and, bizarrely, holds out a hand. I extend my arm in reciprocation and am reminded of that moment in the forest, that moment when I held out my hand in invitation and decided to take a leap into the unknown.

I curl my fingers around his, shake his hand, let go, spin on my heel and stride towards the curtained doorway, those three little words still stuck in my throat.

* * *

"My, God, Robin. Did the fight start already?"

Painfully aware that I've pulled my belt too tightly, I stumble down the last couple of stairs and kneel awkwardly in front of a dripping wet King Richard.

"Nothing a good tailor and a bath won't fix," I say, raising my eyes to meet Richard's interrogating gaze and finding a quick smile.

"Well, get up then man and I'll see what I can do."

I come to my feet, which eases the pressure of my belt somewhat, but does nothing to ease the tension I feel at being face-to-face with Richard. My armpits prickle with sweat, despite the all-pervading chill.

"I am glad to see you here and well, Your Highness," I say.

Richard turns to his men, who stand dripping in the doorway.

"Leave us," he orders.

The door closes and Richard turns to me, smiling.

"Disguise didn't fool you then?" he says, throwing back his hood.

I notice his blond hair has grown long since leaving the Holy Land and is flecked with grey; another reminder, as if I needed one, that Richard and I are nowhere near as compatible as he sometimes hinted at during our numerous private meetings, both in Acre and on the battlefield.

"The clothes are good," I reply. "But no peasant travels by horse, unless he's been to market, in which case he'd be pulling a cart, or he's a tinker who's been on the fiddle."

I wonder if Richard's bodyguards are pressed against the door, or the wall next to one of the shuttered windows, close enough to hear our conversation.

"Sorry, you've lost me," Richard says.

Careful not to limp, I throw open first one and then the other of the hall's main windows. Richard's men are standing in the rain, with the horses, out of earshot.

"Not only did you come by horse," I tell Richard, "but a fine, Normandy bred one at that. Fortunately, Locksley's populace have better things to worry about than how a supposedly lowborn peasant has come to acquire such a valuable piece of horse flesh."

"Still speaking your mind, Robin Hood."

"If I have to."

"You are still Robin Hood, aren't you?"

"Sire?"

"Only Christophe was babbling away about you turning traitor and hooking up with the bad guys. To be perfectly honest, I think he'd been at the drink, although it's hard to tell with Christophe; never will fully understand that man to the day I die. Still, he has his moments."

I am staring at the puddle of water gradually pooling around Richard's boots.

"Sorry, Robin, rambling. It's good to see you. When I heard your ship had gone down I feared the worse."

"I was lucky, Your Highness. By rights I should have been dead, if—"

I am about to say if Guy had not saved me, but I am not sure I should bring him up so early in the conversation with Richard, am still uncertain as to what Christophe might have said.

"If?" Richard prompts.

"If God had not been on my side."

"Well, remind me to thank him next time I'm at prayer, Robin."

Richard peels off his sodden cloak and is astonished when I take it from him and hang it on a peg.

"No servants?" he quizzes.

"No servants," I reply.

I can see Richard turning this fact over in his mind and immediately regret my honesty about my lack of house-staff.

"What things have come to, eh. Now, let me look at you."

Running a hand through his scraggly, damp hair, Richard takes a step back and appraises me.

"You're looking a little thin, Robin."

I swore I'd take a swing at the next person who dared say that, but perhaps the King of England should be an exception.

"Ah, Robin," Richard smiles, "ever quick to take umbrage. I see I've hit a nerve. Sorry. Never could resist baiting you.

Talking of bait, tell me about Sheriff Vaisey. I hear he has become fish food. Am I right?"

"Yes. Vaisey went down with the boat."

"I see. And the other one? Gisborne. What happened to him?"

"Christophe didn't tell you?"

"Pah! I was in no mood for Christophe last night. The man may be a good fighter, but he is bloody useless at taking orders. I told him to bring you to me, and all he does is come back to tell me he found you in that blasted wood you used to call home. I sent him off with his tail between his legs, which was probably a mistake, because I'd rather fancied having _my_ tail between _his_ legs last night. It's so damn cold in this country."

I turn to stare out the window. Despite the driving rain, Richard's men are still standing by the horses.

Richard throws back his head and laughs. It's enough the shake the timbers and I wonder what Guy must be thinking, though I guess laughter is preferable to an ominous silence.

"Does this shock you, my friend?"

"No," I say, returning my attention to Richard and deliberately meeting his blue-grey eyes.

"No, well, I never could get one past you, could I, Robin. So, tell me. What happened to the traitorous bastard that tried to kill me?"

"Gisborne is alive."

"Alive?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I tried to kill him."

"And failed, obviously?"

"Things changed."

"What things?"

"The ship was attacked, by pirates. During the fight I was hurt. Guy…Gisborne saved my life."

"I see."

"He also killed Sheriff Vaisey."

"Indeed? You sound as if you're about to say you have forgiven the man for killing your wife?"

"I have forgiven him. What's more, he is with me now. When I say with me, I mean with us, with the gang, and—"

"For God's sake, Robin! The man tried to kill me. He killed your wife."

I notice that Richard has put his near demise before that of Marian's death and I have an overwhelming desire to punch him in the mouth. But I won't, because he is the King and because he has the power to save Guy.

"I know. But he can help us. He knows of a tunnel and—"

"A tunnel. Blast it man! He is a traitor and a murderer and yet you talk of tunnels."

"Please hear me out, Your Highness. I trust Guy. Trust him with my life. I know what we are up against. We have already had one confrontation with John's men. Gisborne is a good swordsman and we need every able-bodied fighter we can get. As you know, Sire, I left two of my number back in the Holy Land."

"Three, don't you mean?"

"Yes," I say softly. "Three."

Without waiting for Richard to dismiss me, I skirt past the King and make for the open window. Leaning my palms on the window's hard frame, I stare at the leaden sky. It's hard to imagine the end of winter.

I think of Guy, waiting patiently upstairs, listening to the rain. And I think of Marian, buried under the arid sand, with only the hot desert winds to keep her company. I want to go outside and scoop up a handful of snow before the rain washes it away. I want to take it to her grave and say, "Here, a reminder of your home, of the place where you should be resting." And the painful thing is, I don't know if I would be offering up the icy memory to a dark-haired beauty in a white dress, or to a white-boned outline of what she had once been.

I stick my hand out the window and let the cold rain splash onto my palm, hoping it will distract me enough from my unpleasant thoughts that I can turn around and sensibly face my king.

"I am sorry, Robin," Richard says, the stinging edge gone from his voice in the face of my hurt. "I know this is hard for you. But I think Christophe spoke the truth when he said grief has impaired your judgment. Gisborne is guilty of treason and for that he must be punished."

Richard's men are looking at me and nudging one another and I recall boarding the boat out of Acre, of being made fun of in a similar manner, although for an entirely different reason, and Much, standing protectively by my side. I hate them. I hate them for catching sight of my all-too-obvious grief. And I hate that the King of England is standing in my house when the only person I want to be around, the only one able to understand my wretchedness, is Guy.

"No," I say, turning around and no longer caring what Richard thinks, only wishing this to be over. "I do not want any more blood on my hands."

"Are you saying you will not help me win back my castle, Robin?"

"No. I am saying I will keep my oath, and if I have to take a life in order to do so, then I will find a way to reconcile it. But I will not be party to bringing about the death of someone who has shown nothing but penitence the way Gisborne has."

"Robin, I seriously believe you have taken leave of your senses. But if that is what you wish, so be it. I will say no more on the subject. Now, come sit and let us talk of other matters."

Richard settles himself in the fireside chair and sighs. If he thinks I'm going to light a fire, he can go take a running jump.

"Sit down, Robin."

"I'm fine, thank you," I reply, leaning against the fire's mantle. Now that I know Guy is safe from reprisal, I wish nothing more than to be done with the talk and return upstairs.

Richard picks up a piece of kindling and pokes absently at the empty grate. "I'm surprised you came back here," he says. "I would have thought, after everything that happened in the Holy Land, you might have gone some place that holds less memories."

"Locksley is my home."

"Yes, but a lonely one, surely? With your men in the forest?"

"I manage."

"Even so, to be alone, I know what that is like. Kings and leaders of men often find themselves so. But there are times…well, I know you take your vows seriously, and I'm not suggesting that she can easily be replaced, but come, Robin. I'm sure Marian would not wish it upon you to deny yourself some female company from time to time."

"I do not seek female company."

"Indeed?"

"I do not seek anything but that which I have," I reply. Always, I have found it hard to lie to Richard, and now is no exception.

"Of course you don't, Robin. It was crass of me to suggest otherwise. It is far too soon after Marian. But there are other forms of companionship." He gives me a meaningful look. "Hah! Do I disturb you, Robin? Of course I do. See how you clam up. You were always so. Except when you disagreed with me. Only then would your tongue loosen. And believe me, many a time I was grateful for it. How I have managed to survive since you left is beyond me, and I believe, were it not for Christophe's, how shall I put it – zeal – then, by now, I might have been several hands under. But see here. Talk of the earth, reminds me of my parched throat. Your king is here and yet you offer him no refreshment."

"I am sorry, Your Highness," I apologise. "It was remiss of me, although I am not sure that we have any wine in the kitchens."

I think of the spilled wine of last night, and imagine it slipping through the floorboards and splashing, bloody red, onto Richard's greying hair and sun-creased face.

"Wine, ale, I'm not fussed. And ale is the drink of the peasants, is it not," Richard says, indicating his clothes.

"I'll see what I can find, Sire."

* * *

I search the kitchens and wonder why we only appear to have a dried loaf of bread and some even drier cheese. Is Elisabeth unwell? If so, I feel badly. Because it is true that I never see the kind little lavender girl that so dutifully fills our larder for us. She slips in, unnoticed, delivering food and other necessities, collects the small pouch of money that I leave for her on a hook by the door, and slips away again. I decide that as soon as the King takes his leave, I must go check on her and her family.

I find what I am looking for and, only as I am returning to the main hall, do I recall that Nessa must have had her baby by now. Perhaps that is why Elisabeth has been absent. Even so, we will need food soon if we are not to go hungry. I don't doubt that I couldn't find my way around the market and purchase all that we need, but protecting my villagers from unwanted harassment and feeding the poor is, and has to be, my first priority, and I can't see Guy wandering around Nottingham with a basket on his arm working out how many cabbages to buy.

The notion has me smiling and I only just remember to rearrange my face as I near the hall. I don't care that it is Richard, my sovereign, gracing my house; I have no intention of entertaining the King any longer than necessary. The only person I want to share supper with tonight, even if it is only bread and cheese, is the man waiting upstairs.

* * *

Jug and goblets in hand, I step back into the hall and find Richard sitting in front of a crackling fire, shirtless and bootless.

"Ah, Robin. What took you? I thought perhaps I had scared you off with my talk of male company and that even now you might be scampering through that damn forest of yours in search of your gang. Of course, technically, it is my forest, but—"

A sudden blast of wind rattles the open shutters, distracting Richard from his thoughts. "Bloody weather," he says. He looks at me, expectantly.

"I'll get it, shall I," I say, more crossly than I intended.

As I am closing the window I notice Richard's men hunkering down by the wall, mumbling about doing all the dirty work and getting none of the benefit.

"Here, Robin. Come sit with me." Richard pats the arm of his chair. "Oh, come on, man. You've seen your king in a state of undress many a time. It's those damn peasant clothes. They're so scratchy I'm sure I shall come out in a terrible rash."

"Here," I say, thrusting a goblet of wine into Richard's meaty hand and noting the absurdly ornate ring he wears; another glaring piece of evidence belying his supposed peasant status.

Ignoring Richard's invitation to rest alongside him, I drag over another low-slung chair, position it so it faces the fire, and sit.

"To us," Richard says, downing a large gulp of wine and briefly closing his eyes. "Ah, that's better. Now all I need is to warm my chilled feet and for this interminable rain to stop. It's making a complete hellhole of our camp."

"It is better than snow, surely?" I say.

"Maybe, Robin. But the snow has a certain beauty, does it not. It is probably the only thing I actually like about this cursed country in winter and the sooner I am done here the better."

"You will leave?" I ask.

"Yes, to France. Perhaps you will come with me, Robin?" Richard reaches across the small divide between our chairs and lays a fire-warmed hand on top of mine. "I could do with some decent conversation again. Christophe is all very well, but if he is not talking of battles to be won, his conversation is really not worth my spit."

"That's not what I was given to understand, Your Highness," I say, yanking my hand from under his and jerking to my feet.

Richard throws back his head and laughs. "Point to you, Robin. Now, take a drink, man," he says, waving his ringed hand at the jug, "and sit down before you fall down. You look hellishly tired."

"I did not sleep well last night," I say. I think of Guy and me, trading blows, thrashing about on the floor and, finally, jammed up against the wall.

"Ah, now that I can understand," Richard says. "An unshared bed can be the loneliest of places. And a king's bed tends to be on the large side. One's own hand can work wonders, of course, but sharing the chore is even better."

If Richard thinks he can unsettle me, he's going to have to try harder than that.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I recall Guy's and my bedroom antics of earlier. It is a gesture I immediately regret as, abruptly, Richard propels himself out of his chair and I think he has mistaken my smile for one of invitation. Instead, Richard dashes to the window.

"Sire?"

If we are under attack I am in trouble, having neither my bow nor my sword to hand.

Richard waves me down. "Sit, sit, Robin. I'm being as skittish as that damn horse of mine. Those two are new and I wasn't certain I could trust them. Good horses are worth a great deal, you know."

Gratefully, I sink back into my chair. I stare into the fire's flames and, as I do so, a memory licks at my consciousness.

_Hide your temper, bide your time until you can act decisively…or kiss your lands, if not your life, goodbye._

Did Marian say those words, or Edward? I am too tired to remember. All I know is that I ignored them and ended up an outlaw.

The wine and lack of sleep are taking their toll, my eyelids smacking shut as many times as I try to keep them open. Determinedly, I concentrate on the fire's cracks and spits, Richard's griping about his cold feet, and the rain's gentle drumming on the timbers.

* * *

"Robin?"

A whisper. Someone close to me.

Warm fingertips are stroking the nape of my neck and running through the hair that nudges my tag's leather strap. My limbs feel too heavy for my body. I can't remember the last time I felt this warm. Yes, I can. Last night, in bed, with Guy.

I sigh and lean back into his caressing hands.

"I will send my men away," Richard breathes hotly in my ear.

Mortified, my eyes snap open.

I don't even have time to turn around before the sound of booted footfalls alerts me to the terrible mistake I have just made.

"Get your bloody hands off him!"

As Guy thunders down the stairs, I hear the unmistakeable metallic scrape of a sword being unsheathed.

Horrified, I leap to my feet, in the knowledge that this time there is no Marian standing between the King and Guy's blade.

**to be continued…**


	15. Loyalty

**Loyalty**

"Guy! No!"

"You bastard, Robin!"

Four steps up from the bottom stair, Guy leaps and charges.

Drowsy with wine and warmth, Richard barely manages to half turn his head before Guy is at his back. The King's grey-blue eyes widen as the tip of Guy's sword digs into his naked flesh, his ruby-ringed hand still resting in the space where my head sat only moments ago.

Richard turns to face me, his look of incredulity quickly becoming one of surprised comprehension.

This is it, the collision of my two worlds – my lover and my king. I cannot imagine it happening in a worse possible way.

"Guy, don't."

"Give me one good reason why not." His deep blue eyes, only a short while ago pleading and then pleasured, spark in fury, his face contorting in the mistaken belief that I have resorted to doing the one thing I promised I would not do – giving myself to Richard in exchange for Guy's life.

"Well, well, well," Richard says, lowering his hand to grip the back of the chair. "Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, eh, Robin. It seems I have done Christophe a disservice."

Guy snorts and Richard jerks, a sure indication that Guy has just increased the blade's pressure on Richard's ample back. But Richard does not raise his arms to plead for his life. There is even a smile on his lips as he continues to hold my gaze, because the King of England, despite his growing mistrust, still expects me to do right by him.

At any other time, this is the moment where Little John will come crashing through the door, closely followed by Much, shield aloft, yelling all manner of threats, and Allan, deadly serious but still able to quip "all right gents" as he calmly points an arrow. As for me, I will whip up my bow, perform some fancy shot, and we will be away. But my friends are in the forest and I am here, weaponless, gang-less and, for the moment, clueless about what to do next.

"I'm sure your men will be interested in this turn of events, Robin," Richard says, his eyes flicking briefly to the shuttered window.

I can guess he is thinking of his two bodyguards waiting outside, wondering perhaps if they can hear us above the pounding rain.

"My men already know."

"Ah." Despite his predicament, Richard's mouth curls in cruel amusement. "Now I see why they stay in the forest."

He's right. I hate it that he's right.

"The estimable Robin Hood," Richard continues easily, almost as though there is no sword waiting to plunge into his beating heart. "How we fall from grace. If I had known you would prove this easy I might have tried harder. So, tell me, what has Gisborne got that I haven't, eh?"

I glance at Richard's heavily freckled shoulder, think of Guy's unblemished skin, and look up into my lover's troubled eyes. "My trust," I tell him.

Grateful, but still hesitant, Guy silently mouths my name.

Feeling the need to explain myself, I say, "I fell asleep. I thought it was you. You have to believe me."

Guy smiles, briefly. But when he returns his attention to the half-naked Richard his lips resume their grim line and it is obvious he doubts my explanation.

Cautiously, I begin to skirt around the chair, hoping that if I can just reach Guy, touch his arm maybe, he will lower the sword.

I notice Richard has let go the chair-back and, as I edge forwards, a calloused finger lightly touches the back of my hand. I don't know if this means he is about to make some unexpected move, or if he is reminding me to keep my oath and protect my king. Either way, it infuriates me.

"No!" Guy barks. "Stay where you are. And you," he says, his eyes flicking back to Richard's exposed flesh. "Put your hands on the chair, where I can see them."

"And if I don't?" Richard asks.

"Then I'll run you through."

"I'm not stopping you."

If the King's bravado is an act it is a very good one.

With slow deliberation, Richard places his thickly-veined hands on the high chair-back.

I breathe out.

Guy frees up a hand to push his long hair behind his ears and then resumes his double-handed grip on the sword's hilt. I notice his arms are trembling with the effort of keeping the heavy blade steady.

Behind me, the fire crackles and smokes; the backs of my legs are prickly with the heat. There is a sharp spit and snap as the flames lick at an unseasoned log. Guy starts, his eyes darting to the hearthrug.

Shaking his head, Guy returns his gaze to the shirtless Richard – and to me. What he must be thinking I can only imagine. The last time Guy's sword threatened King Richard it had resulted in Marian's death. Is it crossing his mind that it might also result in mine?

Desperately hoping Richard is not about to make a sudden move, I take another tentative step towards Guy. "Put the sword down."

I extend my arm, slowly. But instead of wavering, as I had expected, Guy's grip tightens and steadies, his eyes flicking from me to the back of Richard's head. Very briefly, he licks his lips. This is it, his chance to finish something started long ago, Vaisey's relentless indoctrination still powerful enough to give Guy cause to see it through.

Guy glances at the goblets and jug sitting on the mantel. "I'm just going to plead your case," he sneers, echoing my earlier words.

I clamp my mouth and swallow the angry retort climbing up my throat.

Richard growls, his fingers clawing at the chair, and I can tell his patience is beginning to wear thin.

"Guy. You know I can't let you do this. You know what's at stake here. For God's sake, I've spent the last few years of my life fighting to bring King Richard safely home. Would you have me turn my back on that? Would you condemn me, as well as yourself?"

"I'm already condemned. You know that."

"No, you're not. I forgive you. She forgives you."

I've had enough of his self-pity, and of mine. If he doesn't back down, and soon, I'm going to hit him and to hell with the consequences.

"I can't bear what I did to her, to you."

"And if you kill the King, what do you think that will do to me?" I counter. "Now, lay down your sword and step away."

"No. I'm going to do this thing, so back off, Robin. Back off, or I swear I'll have you, too."

We have been here before, only last night in fact. Guy has slipped into that dark and desperate place where everything is coloured red and all he can see is that hot, dusty town square where his world came crashing down. But he cannot bring himself to hate Marian for her lies and ultimate betrayal, and he no longer hates me, because I am his lover. And Vaisey is already dead.

I thought Guy was better than this. It seems I am wrong. It seems that when push comes to shove, he will always take the quick and easy path. Admittedly, there is no way of knowing if Richard will pardon Guy's treachery, just as there is no way of knowing whether he will have me serve alongside him, now that I have revealed my true colours, but I am determined to settle this peaceably, if I can.

"Your Highness. If Guy backs down, do I have your word he will come to no harm?"

"Don't bloody Your Highness me, Robin Hood. You've changed, and I'm not sure I like what I'm seeing. Give you my word! What do you know of words? You swore an oath to serve king and country. And now look at you. Fraternising with the enemy. No deal."

"Sire. Guy is not the enemy, not mine and not yours, not any more."

"And with which piece of your anatomy are you talking now, Robin?"

I'm almost tempted to tell Guy to go ahead.

This is not going well. I should be talking Guy down, not arguing with Richard. Guy is not stupid. There is a look in his eye that makes me think he has seen a way - a way in which he can keep his living, breathing flesh, even if his soul will be irredeemably lost.

"Robin?"

"What?"

"Are there men outside?"

"Just two, but—" A mistake, nearly as bad as Much's ill-timed "my master and I" during our first encounter with Vaisey's idea of maintaining law and order. I mumble a hasty "don't even think about it" but the seed has been sown and Guy laughs mirthlessly at my idiotic blunder.

"Robin. If you let me do this, no one need know, just us. The noose will no longer be around my neck and we can—"

"No." I shake my head sorrowfully. "You know how I feel about you. But I can't let you do this, any more than Marian could. It will be the ending of you, of us, surely you can see that."

I am a coward, hiding behind Marian's name in the hope that Guy will back down, as he did last night. But it has always been about her and will always be about her. She is the reason this whole thing started. She is the eye of our storm, our beginning and our end, not the King or petty power struggles or fights over castles.

Guy meets my eyes and his lips twitch in a small, sad smile - lips I want to kiss over and over when this is done.

He takes a step backwards, and then another, lowering his sword as he does so. "Now what?"

"What indeed," Richard replies, flexing his muscled arms and turning to face Guy.

I know what I want to happen.

I want to loosen my too-tight belt. I want to eat. I want to go back to bed with Guy, hold him in my arms, and sleep.

The door smacks back on its hinges, and a blast of wind and rain gusts through the opening.

"About bloody time," Richard huffs.

Guy whips up his sword.

But it is not the King's bodyguards. Nor it is the great bulk of John, a shield-flaying Much, or even a grinning but deadly Allan.

It is Christophe.

* * *

First and foremost, Christophe is a soldier, and before I can even shout a warning, although whether meant for Guy or Richard I don't know, Christophe's dagger is digging into my side and my own dagger has been whipped from its sheath.

"Ah, Christophe," Richard says, darkly amused. "Come to join the party?"

Guy snarls, lunges forwards, and renews his sword's pressure, this time on Richard's hairy chest. Grasping my leather jerkin, Christophe drags me across the hall so that both Guy and Richard can see us clearly.

"Well, Robin," Richard says. "What a conundrum, eh."

"Push that sword any harder," Christophe warns, "and lover boy here gets it."

Christophe rips open my jerkin and yanks my shirt from my belt, pressing the vicious dagger into my bare skin.

"Harm him and your king gets it," Guy retorts.

"See, Robin," Richard smiles, the epitome of calm. "What we have here, I do believe, is a stalemate."

"And, if you know me half as well as you think you do," I say, just as calmly, "then you'll know I believe there's a way out of any tight spot."

"By cheating, you mean?"

"Bending the rules."

"And pray tell me, Robin. What rules shall we bend here, eh? Perhaps we could agree a trade – your bedfellow for mine? Or better still, how about we let these two fight it out while you and me go talk about how to get my damn castle back. After all, I didn't have you in my employ just for your pretty face, although I have to admit that was always a consideration.

Aww…don't look at me so, Christophe. You know as well as me why I let you suck up to your king. So, what to do, eh, Robin? Because if somebody doesn't give in soon, I swear I'll have to call in my men and have them cart the pair of you off to the dungeons. That's if I had any damn dungeons."

Our old friend the dilemma, as Vaisey would have said.

Richard or Guy?

I'm certain I'm both fast and clever enough to disarm Christophe. It's Richard I'm worried about. He may not be too kindly disposed towards his lieutenant at the moment, but how will he feel about me attacking his right hand man and personal bed-warmer? Can I even do it? Despite my desire to punish Christophe for what he did to Guy, I still don't think I can find it in me to wholly turn my back on what it means to be one of the King's men. The rules are few but stringent and attacking one of your own is tantamount to treason. Besides, notwithstanding my present resentment, Richard is still the lesser of two evils when it comes to ruling England. Invoking Richard's wrath or, God forbid, turning my back on him completely, can end in nothing short of disaster. Shall I risk everything I've ever stood for, for the sake of one man?

Guy is looking at me, but I know it's not me he sees. It's Marian, imploring him to consider his actions, begging him to think of the bigger picture.

"Guy, I—"

"Hold still." Christophe's gloved hand grasps the back of my neck, adding to my already considerable discomfort.

"Christophe," Richard warns.

"Sire." Christophe twists the leather strap around my neck, pulling it backwards, until my wooden tag is cutting into my throat. "This man, this _traitor_, has lost all sense of right and wrong."

"And we would know all about that, wouldn't we, Christophe."

Christophe swears in his native French, gives my tag another violent tug, and rams his blade into my stomach. Guy gasps. In disbelief, I glance down at the blood beginning to stain my worn shirt, and an image of Marian, injured, lying in a cave, spikes my memory. Christophe has cut me in almost the same place.

Guy's eyes widen, bewildered horror flooding their blue depths. "No," he rasps, "not you, too."

His tight grip on the sword's hilt slackens, fingers uncurl, and the weapon clatters onto the hard stone floor. Staring at the blossoming circle of blood on my shirt, Guy stumbles backwards, until he smacks into the far wall. Shoving both hands behind him, he finds the rough weave of one of Locksley's faded tapestries and gratefully leans against it, as though he would fall but for the wall's reassuring solidity. He looks small and powerless, the black leather failing to disguise the fact that underneath he is just a man. A man beaten and broken, the life he could have had, once again destroyed through bitterness and mistrust.

My heart aches for him.

Pressing a hand to my bloodstained shirt, and pretending that the pain is greater than it actually is, I half slump against my tormentor. Thinking me powerless, Christophe lets go of my shirt and, quick to take advantage, I slam an elbow into his chest.

"Not so fast!" Christophe yanks on my tag's strap, making me gag.

"Christophe," Richard says. "Put the knife down." It is both a command and a request.

"Outlaw," Christophe hisses, slamming a flat hand into my back and shoving me forwards.

Hampered by my cut leg, I stumble and fall.

* * *

A short while ago I was hot, but down here, my face pressing against the cold stone floor, it is refreshingly cool. I open my eyes and realise I must have been knocked out, although obviously not for long, as nobody seems to have moved. I suck in a couple of mouthfuls of foul, gritty air and clamp my mouth against a sudden urge to be sick. I can hear voices: one robust, authoritative and the other petulant, apologetic.

I think I might find Guy leaning over me, his powerful arms helping me to my feet as they did during the pirates' attack on the boat. Then I remember that he is struggling just to stay on his own two feet.

Gingerly, I push up onto my knees, wait for my vision to clear, and then stand, wincing as I do so. I can't decide which hurts the most - my leg, my stomach or my head.

Richard's ringed hand is clutching Christophe's arm, restraining him. The dagger is nowhere in sight.

No longer fearing for my life, I turn around.

Guy is facing the wall, his forehead pressing into the tapestry's neat pattern of red and gold squares. When I was little, I used to count those squares: two hundred and twelve. Much hated that tapestry.

I stare at Guy's hands, at those long, slim fingers that pleasure me to such dizzying heights, splayed out on the wall hanging. I think of last night, and of me, banging into the wooden panels as Guy hammered into me, of reaching that exquisite, blood-pumping, mind-tingling edge, and my ensuing cry as Guy tipped me over. Was I really prepared to turn my back on my king, indeed my country, in exchange for such morally degraded pleasures?

The answer, it seems, is yes.

Guy is crying, and I know, as I have known all along, that this is about more than lust, more than flesh. It is about him, and her, and all that the three of us ever were, and I will not give up on him, no matter what the consequences.

I limp across the room and place a soothing hand on his cold leather doublet. "Guy. It's over."

I don't give a damn what Richard or Christophe think. I don't give a damn about anything any more, other than getting us through this.

"Robin...I thought you were—"

"Shush, it's all right. I'm all right. Well, a few scratches here or there. But all right."

I stroke his tangled mass of hair, grimace as he retches and loses what little he has in his stomach into the red and gold trappings of the tapestry.

"Robin?"

Reluctantly, I turn to face my king. I know I must stay calm if I am to have another go at entreating him to consider my plea for clemency. But since my first uneasy meeting with Richard just a short while ago, to this moment of standing between him and Guy, something has unquestionably shifted in me, the knot of quiet resentment now a great gut-churning ball of anger, and I have an overwhelming desire to smash Richard's imperious face in.

"You disappoint me, Robin," Richard says. "There's me thinking it is the loss of your good lady that makes you reluctant to return to my side, when all the while you have been bedding this traitorous bastard. You know, I am very tempted to chuck you both in a cell and throw away the key. But because my camp has only one such room, and a small one at that, I think perhaps that would suit the two of you only too well."

Despite the thinly veiled attempt at humour, there is no warmth in his words. Richard thinks I have betrayed him. He thinks I have sold out on the king I revered for so long for nothing more than personal gratification, and I doubt he is going to give me the chance to tell him otherwise.

"Christophe, get the men," Richard orders, giving his lieutenant a hefty shove.

Scowling, Christophe backs towards the open door.

"Go!" Richard shouts, waving his hands. "And shut the bloody door after you!"

While Richard is pulling on his discarded clothing, I turn back to Guy. His face is still pressed into the grisly mess on the tapestry.

I slip a hand into his, squeeze, and say, "Guy, I will make this right."

Jerking his hand from mine, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and turns to face me.

"That's what you always say," he whispers hoarsely.

His tear-streaked face and painful accusation are more than I can bear and when Richard snorts in derision, I snap.

* * *

It's a shame it's over so quickly, because there's no denying the feeling of satisfaction I get from knocking Richard to the floor. My only regret is that I'm not wearing my bulky silver ring and could have left a more tangible reminder of just how much I don't like him any more.

"About bloody time!" Richard booms, sitting up and tentatively fingering his jaw. "I was beginning to think you'd gone soft on me, Robin. Good to see the old Huntingdon hasn't entirely disappeared. So, do you feel vindicated now, eh? Or would you like some more?"

I can't tell if Richard is teasing me, or whether it's an actual challenge.

"It'll do," I say.

There is no point making apologies or excuses, I simply wait for the axe to fall. I always knew my relationship with Guy would likely prove my downfall. I just never envisaged it being this way.

There is another cold blast of wind as Christophe and a small contingent of men burst into the room, trailing mud and rainwater in their wake.

Richard points and, pushing me aside, two guards each grab an arm and pull Guy to the centre of the hall. When they shackle his hands behind his back, Guy does not protest.

"What are you going to do?" I ask Richard.

"Gisborne will be incarcerated until such time as I have dealt with Nottingham, and then he will be tried and punished according to law."

"Whose law?" I ask.

"The law of the land, Robin."

I know what this means.

"Please, Your Highness. If I agree to fight with you, help win back your castle and defeat the remaining Black Knights and those loyal to John, will you not consider granting Guy a pardon?"

"Hah! You dare ask for clemency having just struck your king?"

"Yes."

"No, Robin. I do not make bargains, not even with you. Now, I tire of this." He turns to the guards. "Take him away."

With a malicious grin, Christophe strides across the room. He grabs hold of Guy's arm and yanks him towards the open door.

"Guy, don't give them—"

"Save it," Guy growls, twisting his head in my direction.

I want to tell him that I will find a way out of this. I want to tell him that I will come for him. But he is already being led out the door and I know that if Christophe's treatment of him last night is anything to go by, then Guy's imprisonment could be the death of him long before he is ever marched to the gallows.

My chest heaves with regret, with fear for Guy, for us, and the knowledge that it could all be over.

"Come on," Christophe snarls, tugging at Guy's chains.

Guy gives me a final look, his eyes both accusatory and imploring. And then he is through the door. I watch as Christophe and the guards jostle him towards the waiting horses.

Guy stumbles as his boots fail to find purchase on the slick mud, and, without his arms free to break his fall, he lands face down on the ground.

"You bastard! I'll have—"

Richard grabs my arm. "Let it alone," he warns, "or so help me, Robin." He clamps his lips, unwilling to finish whatever it is he was about to say.

But I am done. There is no way out of this, at least not at the moment. All I can do is watch helplessly as Guy is pulled to his feet and then roped behind one of the King's horses. Many moons ago, I was tied in a similar manner, forced to walk behind Guy's powerful mare at the behest of Sheriff Vaisey. I wonder if Guy will fall as many times as I did. Certainly he will be a lot muddier than I was when they finally reach their destination, wherever that might be.

Richard lets go my arm, strides to the far wall and swipes his still sodden cloak from the peg. "I'll see myself out, shall I?"

I don't answer and, with a resounding huff, the King marches out the door.

I am dismissed, as easily as that. Richard once thought the world of me. Not anymore. I think he will be happy if he never sees me again.

The feeling is mutual.

**to be continued...**


	16. Nothing Left to Lose

**Nothing Left to Lose**

I watch.

I watch until the men and the horses reach the top of the hill at the far end of Locksley.

I watch until the throb and burn below my ribs reminds me I am cut and bleeding.

King Richard will not turn around. This is not some big joke. Guy has been taken and, unless I rescue him, my final memory of him will be his gruff "save it" and his accusatory eyes as he was chained and then dragged out of Locksley Manor.

It cannot and will not end like this.

Closing the door on the wind and rain, I head determinedly for the stairs. I need my weapons.

I place my booted foot on the first stair and clutch the wooden handrail, fighting a wave of dizziness. Breathing hard, I glance down at the spreading stain on my shirt and realise the stairs might just as well be a mountain for all the hope I have of getting up them.

Thinking I might feel better for being nearer to the ground, I lower myself onto my knees and rest my forehead on the bottom step. If anything, I feel worse. The grain of the stair winks in and out. My breaths sound huge and panicky, as if there's not enough air to go around. Be sick, Robin, I tell myself, and then you'll feel better. And then I think of Guy, pressing into the red and gold tapestry, and I swallow down the urge to retch.

Grasping the stair's wooden post I pull myself up. There are only seventeen stairs, Robin. You can do that, easily. And then you'll be upstairs, as if by being upstairs I will be miraculously healed.

But my boots stay pinned to the bottom stair. I can't seem to move. It's as if I've lost too much to move: Marian, the respect of my gang, my favour with Richard, as well as my steadfast devotion to the King, and now, quite possibly, Guy.

"My Lord?"

I did not hear the door's creak, but I instantly recognise the young girl's voice. It is the lavender girl, our one and only house-servant, Elisabeth.

My back is to the door, but I can do nothing to hide the spatter of blood on the floor, the smell of vomit, or the fact that Robin Hood is in tears.

"Are you not well, my Lord? Has something happened? I was just going to deliver—"

Elisabeth gasps and I guess that she has seen the spots of blood leading from the door to the foot of the stairs.

Knowing I can neither hide the evidence of my injury, nor my distress, I turn around.

Elisabeth drops whatever it is she is holding, eyes widening at the still blossoming circle of blood on my shirt.

"You're hurt?" She takes a couple of steps and then checks herself, unsure of her place, frightened perhaps that she too might be in danger. Her eyes dart towards the balcony and then towards the door that leads to the servants' quarters.

Pressing both hands to my stomach in an effort to staunch the bleeding, I give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"It's all right, Elisabeth. No one is going to hurt you. There is no one here but me."

Elisabeth looks down, dismayed, at the broken jug, the smashed eggs and the round cheese that has tracked the line of bloody dots across the floor.

She looks up, eyeing my blood-soaked shirt, shaking her head from side to side as if she cannot believe that the legendary Robin Hood could possibly be hurt.

"Did he do this? Did he hurt you?" she asks, a child's curiosity getting the better of her fear.

"Who?"

"Him. Gisborne. I mean, Sir Guy. Did he—"

"No. It wasn't him."

"Then who—"

"I have enemies, Elisabeth. Everyone knows that. But don't worry. They are long gone. You have nothing to fear."

Holding up her skirts, Elisabeth takes a few tentative steps towards me, carefully stepping over the spilled contents of the basket. Judging herself to be near enough to the man she serves, she pushes her stumpy blond plaits over her shoulders and leans forward, squinting at my injury.

"It looks bad. Is it bad? You should come to my house. My mother will know what to do."

"I don't have time for that. I have to go."

"Why? Are the bad men coming back? Shall I—"

"No. They're not coming back, at least not today." I glance down at the blood seeping through my fingers. "You're right, though. This cut needs stitching and I'm not sure I can do it myself. But before I come with you I need to get my weapons. They're upstairs."

"Do I have to stay down here, by myself?"

I think of our bedchamber: the wine and blood-splattered floorboards, the broken table and the soiled bed sheet.

"I will not be long. Here."

I let go the stair-post and walk purposefully towards the high-backed chair where I had been sitting only a short time ago, trying not to dwell on the idiocy of my falling asleep and my sleepy-headed response to Richard's calloused fingers on the back of my neck.

The chair is heavier than I remember and it's all I can do not to cry out as I drag it across the floor and wedge it against the front door. I know it is little more than a gesture; anyone could break in through the shuttered windows. But Elisabeth, like almost every other villager, believes Robin Hood has all the answers.

She smiles and nods in satisfaction.

With Elisabeth watching it is easier to climb the stairs.

* * *

As I step into our doorless bedchamber – I cannot think of it in any other terms now – I try to think what I will need. My weapons, of course; a clean shirt; not needle and thread, Nessa will have those. Perhaps some wine, if I can find any.

I stare at the bed. Guy has done as I asked and stripped it of the soiled sheet and turned the mattress over. It makes me sad. It makes it seem as though our lovemaking is already a thing of the past.

Turning to the wall, I half expect to see the bloody knife still stuck there, but the knife, like the sheet, is gone, slipped into my belt and then taken from me the instant Christophe stuck his dagger in my side.

I perch on the edge of the bed, to save bloodying it further, and then stupidly run my blood-smeared hands over the rough mattress. Like a kick to the stomach, worse than my present hurt, everything comes flooding back. The warm embraces. The urgent demands. Every touch, every recrimination, every silent plea and whispered longing. I cannot bear to think I might never again push my cold feet in between his, that I might never again feel his weight on top of me or his powerful arms around me. I cannot bear to think that we might never again share this bed.

I push off the mattress, mumble a few choice expletives as I am reminded of my injury, and start to collect the things I need. My bow and quiver are beside the bed. I find a clean shirt by the washstand and think about cleaning myself up, but change my mind. Not because I don't feel I can spare the time, but because I really don't want to know just how badly I am hurt. I don't want anything to stop me from going for Guy.

I limp across to the other side of the room to retrieve my sword from where it is leaning against the wall. For a few agonising moments, I press my bruised forehead into the rough wooden timbers, recalling the last time I leant against this particular wall.

Not wishing to leave Elisabeth for too long, I quickly scan the room for anything else I might need. My eye catches a small piece of white linen peeking out from beneath the lid of the chest that lives under the window. Thinking it might make for a decent bandage, I lift up the lid. It is the missing sheet. I pull it aside, but there is nothing else in the chest. The spare dress that Marian once kept in there – in case of emergencies, she said – is long gone. As are Rowena's clothes, handed to Luke on the day I returned to Locksley with Guy at my side.

I slam the lid.

* * *

Elisabeth is on her knees, picking up the bread and meats resting among the shards of broken jug.

"Don't trouble yourself with that. Let's get to your mother now."

Elisabeth stands up, brushing at her skirts. "But Mama always says food is too precious to waste. And the wine I brought is all spilled and will make the worst of stains."

"Elisabeth. Now is not the time to be worrying about it, and we don't need wine."

"But Sir Guy said I was to bring it. He said that if I didn't—"

"If you didn't what? Did he threaten you? Did he...did he lift a finger to you? Elisabeth?"

"No. He never touched me. He was just—"

"What?"

"I don't know. Angry. Sad. I don't like him. I'm sorry. I know he is your guest here and you said we should treat him well. But he frightens me. He's so...so dark, so black."

"I know. He frightens me sometimes. But people are not always what they seem. Believe me."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

Gritting my teeth, I drag the heavy chair away from the door.

"It's raining really hard now," Elisabeth says. "We'll get all wet."

"I think getting wet is the least of my worries."

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter." I reach out and grasp her small hand. "Come on, we'll make a run for it."

Head down, skirts bunched in one hand, Elisabeth pulls me through the door and into the pouring rain. As we slip and slide on the muddy paths, she starts to laugh. Look at me, she is saying, pulling the great Robin Hood behind me. Thankfully, Locksley has decided to close its doors on the rain and there is no one to see the happy little girl or the desperately unhappy Robin Hood.

* * *

Nessa tuts and points to the only chair not strewn with bits of material, children's clothes, or squares of muslin.

I dutifully sit.

A couple of little heads peer from the top of the open stairway, and Elisabeth hisses at them to go back to their rooms.

"Now then, Master Robin, I hope this is not as bad as it looks. I got enough on me plate looking after six children and the new one without fussing over the likes of you."

Nessa instructs me to take off my jerkin and shirt. She shakes her head and tuts some more. She dips a cloth into a bowl of water that Elisabeth has produced and, slowly and patiently, starts to wipe my bloodied skin.

"Keep still. I need to find out where the edges are so I can stitch."

"Sorry." I turn to look out the window. It is already growing dark. Nessa lightly touches my old scar; the one Guy gave me in the Holy Land.

"Looks like you're starting to make a habit of this." She pauses, turns her head. "Elisabeth. Don't stand there gawking girl. You've seen your father's bared chest enough times to know what there is to see, though this one certainly pleases the eye more. And blood is blood. Now, go put on some dry clothes and make sure the little 'uns are all in bed and then fetch me some more warm water and fresh cloth. And Elisabeth?"

"Yes, Mama?"

"Take the baby with you and give her a rock till I'm done."

Still staring at me, Elisabeth dips her hands into the tiny wooden cradle sitting by Nessa and, clutching the swaddled baby, backs towards the narrow stairs leading to the upper floor of Nessa's small cottage.

"Go on," Nessa chides. "Shoo."

"Now," she says, turning to me. "Let's see what you've gone and done this time. Or maybes it was him? I always said he was a no good piece of—"

"It wasn't Guy...Sir Guy."

Nessa holds up a large needle to the rapidly fading light and expertly threads it.

"No? Well, it wouldn't surprise me. Having a man like that in your house. Whatever can you be thinking? But even if it wasn't him, that don't make it no better. Because there's people relying on you, Robin Hood. _Good_, _decent_, people." She pauses, the tip of the needle a hair's-breadth from my wound. "You know, Robin, I've half a mind not to sew you up, let you bleed to death and, if it weren't for the good Christian in me, that's exactly what I'd do."

Nessa pinches my torn skin between her finger and thumb and jabs the needle through.

"Ow!"

"Hurt, did it?"

"Yes."

"Good. If it weren't for the fact you're a grown man, you'd likely feel the back of my hand – somewhere where it'd really hurt."

I look up and meet Nessa's penetrating green eyes. She knows, although how, when we have taken every precaution to be discreet, I do not know.

I half rise from my chair.

"Oh, no you don't." Nessa places a reddened hand on my shoulder. "You're not going anywhere, not least till I've fixed you up. As much as you don't deserve my sympathy, I'll not be accused of turning my back on the one man who can help the people of Nottingham."

"How did you find out?"

"There," she says, ignoring my question and snipping the thread. "You're done. Now, I'm no healer, but I've dealt with enough cuts in me time to know that although it's a deep one, it's nothing that a bit of time and care won't heal. I'd say you're going to live."

Nessa hands me my clean shirt.

"Mama. Eleanor is hungry." Elisabeth picks her way down the stairs and offers the squalling baby to her mother, giving me quick, shy smile as she does so.

"She was but fed a short time ago, child," Nessa scolds. "She's greedy, just like the rest of you."

"What should I do, Mama?"

I finish pulling on my shirt and think about leaving. I change my mind. Running will not solve anything, and I need to hear what Nessa has to say, if only to know who else knows.

Nessa sighs. "Oh, go on, give her here and get yourself back upstairs. And stay there till I've finished with Master Robin."

"Yes, Mama." Elisabeth gives me another quick smile.

"Get off with you now." Nessa waves her daughter away and, with a final glance at me, Elisabeth bounds up the stairs.

"Honestly, kids. Who'd 'ave em?" Nessa unlaces the bodice of her dress and the hungry baby immediately latches onto her milk-swollen breast.

The action reminds me of the young woman in France, whose house I 'fell into' as I was trying to escape the fat, florid Dupont. I can almost smell the pot roast, the fatty tallow and the sweet, milk-encrusted cloth she handed me to wipe my bleeding forehead. That was what I had wanted, that house, that life. Until I stumbled outside, until Guy found me slumped against a wall in a shadowy alleyway and laid his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't blame the girl," Nessa says, robustly patting the baby's back. "She was but doing as she was asked. And it would not seem strange to her, what with her brothers and sisters three to a bed. But the manor house has more than enough rooms, especially for only two people and no servants, and I'm sure there are fires aplenty not to be sharing blankets and bed."

Hasty lies crowd my head: he sleeps elsewhere, we take turns, the other lying awake in case of attack, safety in numbers.

Nessa whispers a soft "well done" as the baby hiccups. She moves the infant to her other milk-oozing breast.

"What did she tell you?" I ask, quietly.

"Elisabeth was only doing what I asked her to do. Extra blankets for the Master, I tells her. Because men know not how to look after themselves, especially thems that think only of others.

They sleep like Theodore and Edward, she tells me, and I fair near slapped the girl for her insolence, innocent though it might have been.

Explain I says, and so she tells me, tis the only room with a bed made up. She tells me that she's seen things what belong to you on one side of the bed and things what belong to him on the other side. I didn't want to believe it, of course. Not the Lord of Locksley, not Robin Hood. And then I remembered. I remembered the day you and him walked into the village, when you said you and him had come to an understanding. And maybes no one else saw, but I did. The way he looked at you when you said that, and then how he tried to cover it up by laughing. And I thought nothing of it at the time, why should I. But now..."

I can hear the rain lashing against the ill-fitting wooden shutters. Will winter never end?

"Who have you told?"

"No one, though Lord knows I should tell the whole of Locksley what evilness goes on behind those doors. But what good would it do I asks you? You are the only one who can help these people. Would I destroy their hopes by telling them about your sinful ways? But, by God, you'd best deliver your promises, Robin Hood, or I swear your days as Lord of Locksley will be numbered."

"I'm sorry, Nessa. I don't know...I didn't mean to—"

"Whatever you're going to say, Robin, I don't want to hear it."

"Nessa. For what it's worth, Guy has changed. He is no longer the monster the people thought him to be."

Nessa shifts the now slumbering baby to her other arm. "I thought when you met that young girl, Rowena, that you would find some joy in your life again. I thought that at long last a lord and his lady will be gracing the big house that has seen such misery these past few years."

Nessa dips her head and gazes at her daughter. She gently wipes a small dribble of milk from the baby's chin.

"I know you did and I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. Except, thank you, for fixing me up, for not telling—"

Nessa hands me my bow.

"I don't want your thanks. I could no more let you bleed than I could me own children. Never could stand to see anyone suffering. But once you're out that door I don't ever want to see you again but from a distance. And, just so you knows, Elisabeth will not be calling again. You're on your own now, Robin Hood, and God help the both of you."

"What will you tell Elisabeth?"

"Nothing that she don't need to know, of that you can be sure. I'll tell her I need more help with the children and tis not a lie."

"Here." I hand Nessa a small pouch of money. "Elisabeth left it behind."

"We don't need your money. Now, take yourself off so I can see to me children."

I leave the money bag by the door and make my way out into the rain.

* * *

"A mistake!"

"Yes, Allan."

After letting Much fuss over my various injuries, including the angry swelling on my forehead, I quickly and quietly told the gang about Richard's refusal to pardon Guy, about Christophe's untimely arrival, and about me hitting the King. What I omitted to tell them was how close Guy had come to running Richard through, and why it had happened in the first place.

"You call punching the King of England a mistake?"

"Look, Richard wasn't buying Guy being on our side. Things got a bit out of hand and—"

"Out of hand!"

"I messed up, Allan. All right."

"You're telling me."

"Aye, well, what's done is done." John slams the end of his staff into the ground. "Now perhaps we can concentrate on what we're _supposed_ to be doing."

"I have not forgotten what we do, John."

"No?"

"No. But I need to rescue Guy first, and I can't do that without your help."

"No."

"Please, John. Christophe will butcher him."

"The answer is still no. You, we will help. The King, we will help. Feeding the poor, protecting the people, that is our job. Him, we will not help."

"But if it were me?"

"It's not you though, is it. It's _him_."

How anyone can inject such venom into such a simple word as 'him', I do not know. But there it is. John has made his position clear.

"Look, not being funny, Robin," Allan says, a hint of apology on his face, "but it's a lot to ask."

"I wouldn't be asking, Allan, if I thought I could do it by myself. But I can't."

"The thing is, Robin, these are the King's guards. They're not going to be anything like the sheriff's old lot. It's going to take a lot more than a sewer, a well-placed cartload of straw and a few hoods to get past them. And, in case you hadn't noticed, it's dark and you don't have the foggiest where the King's camp is."

Trust Allan to point out the obvious.

"Surely, nothing can happen between now and the morning, Robin," Much says, rather unconvincingly. "I mean, Christophe must have to sleep too."

It's the first time Much has spoken since I arrived at the camp, other than to cluck sympathetically over my cuts and bruises. Perhaps he was waiting to see what Allan and John had to say on the matter.

"You saw what Christophe is capable of," I counter.

"Yes, but getting yourself caught, supposing you even find the camp, won't help Guy though, will it?"

I notice he has said you and not we, but like Allan, Much also has a point.

"I can't just leave him there."

"All we're saying...er...all I'm saying...is rest, go to bed. You're always telling us we should wait and think, and then when it comes to something you want to do, you want to go off just like that. I mean, have you taken a look at yourself lately?"

Much is right. I need to think this one through, come up with something that is more than half a plan. I also need to eat and to lie down.

"May I have some of that?" I ask, pointing at Much's cooking pot.

Much smiles, crosses to his kitchen, and ladles me a plate of food.

"Here. Eat."

I walk carefully to a tree stump and sit, not certain that the weight of the piled plate won't have me tipping forwards. I feel feather-light, without substance. I'm a complete fool to think I can mount a rescue when I barely have the strength to stand.

I eat, cramming the food into my mouth, ignoring the gang's stares. When the plate is empty Much prises it from my hands, wordlessly refills it, and hands it back.

It's only then that the rest of the gang take their plates and join me.

"Don't you two ever eat?" Much asks.

"Only each other," Allan quips.

I'm too tired and upset to care.

I eat slowly, savouring the food this time around, letting the gang's quiet chatter wash over me. I miss this. I miss this simple act of eating together at the end of a long day, sharing friendly banter and making plans and schemes. Except it's not like that anymore, and it never will be. Even if this thing with Guy hadn't happened, Marian's absence would have continued to cast a shadow over everything. And all those angry, bitter words I hurled at each of them in my darkest moments on board the boat from Acre; nothing, barring complete memory loss, will take that away. Meal times, gang times, together times, will never be the same again.

Even though I am still hungry, I put down my plate.

I wish I were back in Locksley, before the King came, sharing a drink with Guy, sharing conversation and a warm fire, catching each other's eye in the knowledge that soon, and maybe long before we even reach the bedchamber, we will be kissing, and touching, and forgetting our names.

* * *

I jerk to wakefulness and realise I must have fallen asleep. John and Allan have disappeared, but Much is still sitting some short distance away. He gives me a careful smile, looks ridiculously grateful that I have eaten. He offers me some ale and, because I want to please him, I take it. Then he starts to talk, his usual inane jabbering. I find it strangely calming tonight. He talks about the rain and the mess it's making of the camp, about his bed getting wet, lamenting the loss of the snow fortifications that Guy and he made.

I'd been feeling good, pleasantly warm, sitting by the glowing campfire, listening to Much ramble on. It felt like being back in a familiar place. But Much's inadvertent slip about fortifications, and thus Guy, reminds me why I'm here, and a sudden hollowness balloons large in my chest, robbing me of the simple joy of being restful and replete, threatening to plunge me back into the despairing place I was in just a short time ago.

"Are you all right?" Much asks.

"No, Much. I'm not all right."

"Robin. He's the King. The King of England. We're his men. I don't understand why you've suddenly turned against him. All right, so we had that er..._misunderstanding_...in the Holy Land, and the whole strung up in the desert under a broiling sun thing, which wasn't exactly pleasant, but still...the King, Robin."

"He's not the man I once thought he was. He's changed, Much."

"Maybe you're the one who's changed, have you thought of that?"

Ignoring Much, I drop to my knees and warm my hands over the fire.

"You're still wearing it then?"

I look at my outstretched hands and at the bulky silver ring on the middle finger of my right hand. I don't know what prompted me to put it on before I left the house with Elisabeth. I think I had this idea that when I next met King Richard I might give him another smack in the jaw.

"I have to rescue him, Much. Christophe will kill him if he gets the chance."

"I know."

I put my hands in my lap, fiddle with my ring. "Listen. When I first spoke to Richard earlier he all but said he didn't give a damn about punishing Guy. It was only after Guy—"

"After Guy what?"

"—after Guy showed himself that Richard changed his mind. Much, the King doesn't want Guy hanged because he committed treason or because he tried to kill Richard in the Holy Land. He wants him dead for personal reasons. He wants him dead because Guy and me...well, I don't have to spell it out, do I?"

"I'd rather you didn't mention it at all, if you don't mind."

"I'm sorry. But not talking about it won't change things or make it go away. You know, I always knew Richard had an interest in me, I just didn't want to admit it. Now, I see Richard for what he is, not what I wanted him to be. Even so, I won't deny he's a brave knight, and I have no doubt he will die in some battle or other, as is his wish. And on that score, I'm with Richard. If I have to die – and God knows I probably deserve it – I'd sooner it were fighting than to find myself strung up with my guts hanging out."

Much shuffles closer to the fire, stretching his ridiculous, multi-coloured, wool jerkin over his knees.

"Actually, I'd prefer the whole grey-haired, grandchildren, blanket over knees thing."

"Well," I smile, "that would be nice, but can you honestly see it, for any of us?"

"I don't see why we—"

"Much. I have to try and rescue Guy, if only to show him that I haven't failed him as everyone else did."

"What, and get killed in the process? You're hurt, Robin, in case you hadn't noticed."

"There's always a chance while I can still do this." I pat my bow. "And, who knows. Perhaps it won't come to that. Perhaps I can still appeal to Richard's better nature, even if I have to grovel or—"

"Or what?"

"Nothing." I'm thinking about Guy's earlier insinuation that I might offer myself to Richard. "Nothing, Much. Just...go to bed."

* * *

"Robin done a runner, has he?"

I can hear them, talking about me.

"No. He's gone to bed."

"All right. Keep your hair on, Much. I was only asking. And there's no need to look at me like that. Look, for what it's worth, I quite like Guy. There, I've said it. But, not being funny, this is not like robbing taxes."

"That's why Robin needs us."

"Robin chose his path, Much. And just because he's our leader that doesn't make it right, or that we should follow him in everything he does."

Always, John is the voice of dissent, as well as the voice of reason.

"Yes, but we chose to be a gang. And gangs stick together and help each other out, no matter what."

"Yeah, well, there's helping and there's suicide," Allan says. "On the other hand, what Much says about us sticking together is true...and before you start spouting off about that other thing, I've said sorry a million times, all right."

"No." There are a couple of thuds, and I know John is stabbing his staff into the ground, demanding their attention. "Listen to me for once. We are not going to rush off on a fool's errand just because Robin wants us to. Have you both conveniently forgotten exactly who and what we are talking about here?"

"No, John, it's just that—"

"Gisborne!" John booms, as though Allan has not spoken, as though I am not resting just a short distance away. "We are talking about Gisborne. Do you know what he does? Do you?"

"John, we—"

"I'll tell you what he does, shall I. He watches while good, honest folk have their tongues cut out, while my Alice struggles and cries for mercy. This is the same Gisborne who made the lives of the villagers a misery, who burned Marian's house and later murdered her. And now he and Robin lie with each other, sticking their—"

"Enough, John! We get the picture, all right."

"No, Allan, I don't think you do."

"Look, we're not saying Guy didn't do all those things, and we're not saying that he and Robin...well...you know. But he's changed. People can change, John. Much?"

"Do we have to do this now?"

Poor Much, he hates taking sides.

"Yes," John says, "we do. Speak."

"All right. Er...what Allan says is right...and...er...what you're saying is right as well, John. But Robin is my master. Wait. I know what you're going to say; he made me a free man. Well, it is my right as a free man to say that I will always think of Robin as my master and I will always do what I swore to do all those years ago and look after him. But he is also my friend, and I love him, and I will never stop loving him no matter what he does and...what was the question again?"

"Are we going to help Robin or not?"

I consider covering my ears. I can't bear that they are arguing over me, nor that I am the cause of so much animosity. But I have to know. Guy's life may depend on it.

"Much?"

"I...er..."

"Well, I will if you're not going to."

"Blimey! Where the hell did you spring from?"

It is Rowena. Long-limbed, doe-eyed Rowena. The last girl I ever held.

**to be continued...**


	17. A Done Deal

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright bbc/tiger aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

**A/N: **A huge thanks to my lovely beta **Sunnyday30** for her tireless efforts in helping me sort out my somewhat haphazard timeline for this story.

I have since reworked one of my earlier chapters (ch8 The Box Affair) to correctly reflect the passage of time. Additional/amended line: _It is the same the next day (referring to the gang's refusal to accept Guy, and Robin's less than happy visits to the camp). And in the __days and weeks __that follow. _Apart from a couple of minor tweaks later on in that chapter, everything else remains the same.

**To clarify timeline of story so far:** _Everything is a Choice_ ends in late November. _Endgame _begins where _Choice _left off. In ch16 of _Endgame, _we are nearing the end of February. Therefore, approximately 12 weeks have passed since Robin and Guy first 'got it together'.

* * *

**_Previously... _**

"_Are we going to help Robin or not?"_

_I consider covering my ears. I can't bear that they are arguing over me, nor that I am the cause of so much animosity. But I have to know. Guy's life may depend on it. _

"_Much?" _

"_I...er..."_

"_Well, I will if you're not going to."_

"_Blimey! Where the hell did you spring from?"_

_It is Rowena – long-limbed, doe-eyed Rowena. The last girl I ever held._

* * *

**A Done Deal**

Voices.

One is Much, bemoaning the fact there isn't enough food to go round. The other is Rowena, telling Much not to worry about it.

As I lay in bed last evening, listening to the gang arguing over whether or not to help me rescue Guy, I'd heard Rowena's unexpected arrival at the camp, and I'd intended to get up and say hello. I'd meant to ask Rowena why we had not seen her in such long time, feeling ashamed that I'd hardly given her a thought since Guy and me had been together. However, it seems both my injuries and my utter weariness had got the better of me, and the thought had remained just that.

Painfully, I ease my legs over the edge of my bunk, rub my face with my hands and pull on my boots. By the brilliant sunlight filtering through the leaf-strewn roof of the camp, I quickly realise is it late morning. I have slept for ages.

"Not being funny, but there's mistakes and there's punching the King of England in the face."

It seems last night's bickering is still going strong.

"We all make mistakes, Allan."

I wonder if Rowena is referring to our impulsive lovemaking, or the fact that I chose Guy over her.

"Look, all I'm saying is I wouldn't want to be in Robin's boots right now."

"All the more reason to help him."

I smile. It sounds as though Rowena's still intent on playing the hero – unlike me. Because yesterday, as I'd gripped Elisabeth's small hand, while we slipped and slid through the torrential rain, I made a decision: I would rescue Guy and we would leave Nottingham. The King will have men enough to deal with his castle, and my friends have repeatedly made it clear they don't want me around while I continue to share a bed with Guy. I'd been thinking this even as I'd been trying to convince them to come with me. I'd been thinking this as, hurting and weary, I lay on my bunk, craving the oblivion of sleep. And then I'd heard Rowena telling my friends she was going to help me, and I changed my mind.

_There are good, decent people relying on you, Robin Hood. _

Nessa is right. I cannot abandon my people, not this close to the end, and certainly not for the sake of one man, who nobody really cares about except me.

"Thing is," Allan says. "We can't simply walk in there and demand the King hands over Guy just because we're the ones doing the asking."

"But he's Robin Hood," Rowena counters.

"Not the last time I looked, he wasn't."

"Talking of whom," Much interrupts. "Do you think we should go check on him, make sure he's all right?"

"No need, Much." Shielding my eyes from the sun's welcome glare, I walk carefully across the wet and muddy forest floor towards my friends. "Hello, Rowena. It's good to see you again."

"Robin." She makes to curtsey, checks herself, and gives me a small smile instead.

Long-limbed, doe-eyed Rowena: the last girl I ever held. The girl I bedded because I thought it might take away my want of Guy.

She looks different, and not just because she is wearing a dress, or because her once short, roughly chopped hair now touches her shoulders, hiding her sticking out ears. She is pale, suggesting time spent indoors. Her dark brown eyes regard me, serenely, and I wonder what has happened to the lively girl I met in Locksley all those weeks ago.

"How are you?" I ask.

"As you see, Robin, though perhaps it is me who should be asking you that question?"

"I'll live."

"You always seem to."

I don't know what to say to her. We had parted amicably, wishing each other well. Yet now, standing here, it feels as though there are things we have left unsaid, things we should talk about if only we knew where to start.

"Any chance of breakfast?" I ask Much. I cannot speak freely with the gang watching and listening.

Much rolls his eyes.

"What? I'm only asking for something to eat. It's hardly the moon, is it?"

Shaking his head, Much strides towards his cooking pit, mumbling something about masters and servants.

"Here," he says, returning with a plate of food and thrusting it towards me.

I reach out and gasp, as a stabbing pain has me clutching my stomach instead of the proffered plate.

"Robin?"

I take a couple of deep breaths, wave Much away and straighten up.

"You should sit," Much says, again offering me the plate. "Here. I've made eggs, because Allan said girls like eggs, so I thought..."

Much turns to Rowena.

"Thank you, Much, but I'm really not that hungry."

"But you hardly ate a thing last night."

"Just a little then. But not eggs."

"You don't like eggs?"

"Not very much, no."

"Oh. Right."

Once again, Much strides towards his kitchen.

"Perhaps we should take Much's advice." Rowena indicates the hewn tree trunk where we take most of our meals; that is, whenever we are willing to sit with one another, which isn't much these days.

"Good idea."

Holding up her skirts, Rowena picks her way around the worst of the mud and I follow in her tracks.

We reach the tree trunk, successfully, and both go to sit, bumping into each other on the way down.

"Sorry," we say in unison.

We try again and end up sitting at either end of the branch.

Rowena shakes her head and laughs. "We're being silly, aren't we?"

"Just a bit," I smile. I shuffle towards her, until we are all but touching.

Rowena gathers her heavy skirts about her legs and clutches her woollen shawl across her bosom. I notice she is shivering.

"Do you want to move closer to the fire?" I ask.

"No, I'm fine. Really."

"So, tell me," I say. "What have you been doing with yourself all this time? I'm sorry I've not spoken to you since...well, you know...Much has missed having you around."

"It wouldn't have worked, my staying here, Robin. You know that."

I wonder if I should tell her that Guy and me live exclusively in Locksley.

"No, I guess not."

We lapse into silence. Out the corner of my eye, I see Rowena fiddling with the frayed edges of her shawl.

"What is it?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says quickly, dropping the length of shawl into her lap. "It's nothing. It's cold, isn't it?"

"I'm sure you didn't come here to just to talk about the weather?"

"No."

Something is obviously troubling her but, whatever it is, she seems reluctant to talk about it.

"You still haven't answered my question," I say.

"What question was that?" Rowena turns to face me.

"About what you've been doing all winter."

"Oh, that. Well, sewing mostly." Rowena smiles, as though amused by the notion.

"You, sewing, really?"

"Yes, really. I am a woman after all."

"You wouldn't be the first woman I've met who doesn't sew, or at least gives a very good impression of not being able to."

I am thinking of Marian and her dislike of embroidery. I never really did learn whether she could do it more than competently.

"I've been helping Thomas' family. You remember Thomas, don't you?"

"His family live in Clun, don't they?"

"Yes. They took me in after...well...you know."

"Did you tell them...about us?"

"Of course not. I just said I needed somewhere to stay now you were back in Locksley. I suppose they thought it strange you didn't offer me a home, but if they did, they were too polite to ask."

"And are you happy there? Only you seemed to rather like playing at being me."

"Well, as I once said to Much: 'there can only be one Robin Hood'."

"To which he replied: 'one is quite enough'."

"You were listening to our conversation?"

"No. Yes. It doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm glad, glad you've found a home after being without one for so long. But surely you've been doing more than sewing and learning how to wear a dress?"

Rowena smoothes her skirt, as if she is still trying to come to terms with wearing something other than the men's clothing she wore during her time at Locksley, before I came home.

"I must admit, it felt strange at first; the dress I mean, not the sewing. Do you think it suits me?"

"I think I preferred you in the breeches and shirt, though I guess that says more about me than you."

She lightly touches my ringed hand.

"You stayed with him then?"

"Yes."

There is an awkward silence, during which I realise that not only has Allan disappeared, but also that Much too has decided to make himself scarce.

"I'm really sorry, Rowena. About what I did. It was unforgivable."

"Typical."

"What?"

"Typical man that you should take all the credit."

I shift slightly, to accommodate my still painful midriff.

"Sorry?"

"I wanted it just as much as you – remember?" Rowena turns away and stares at some far off point in the forest. "I know it's not easy for a man to comprehend, but women do have desires, Robin, and hopes, and dreams, just as much as any man."

"I know. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"I know you didn't. I just wanted you to know that it wasn't entirely your fault."

"Even so, it was wrong of me, especially so soon after Marian...after we got back from the Holy Land."

I can't and don't want to talk about Marian, not today, maybe not ever, unless it is with Guy. How strange, I think, that after all that happened between the three of us, and the fact Guy killed Marian, he should be the only one I am happy to speak with about my dead wife.

"Marian wasn't the reason though, was she?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know you were still grieving for her – you probably still are – but hers was not the name you spoke in the night, Robin."

_...when the name you speak is not the name of the person in your arms..._

So, Rowena had been sparing me after all.

"I can't give up on him."

As always, whenever Guy is absent, I find myself fingering the ring he pressed into my hand just before he first kissed me.

"Robin, your men told me what happened. I know where the King's camp is."

"What?"

"I know where King Richard is. I can take you there."

"Is this what you came to tell me last night? Rowena?"

She turns to face me.

"Sort of."

"Sort of?"

Rowena stares at me for a long moment, as if considering her next words. "It'll keep," she says, shaking her head and looking down at her dress. "You know, I think I should go back to Clun and change out of these girl's clothes and—"

"No. There isn't time for that."

"I was going to say...and get Luke and Thomas. If there is to be a fight, you will need more help. After all, you're hurt, I'm a girl, and Much—"

"I'll have you know," Much says, skidding to a halt in front of us and almost spilling the contents of the plate he's holding onto Rowena's lap. "Sorry...your breakfast." He hands Rowena a plate of bread and meat.

"Thank you, Much. What were you going to say?"

"Oh, yes. I was going to say that I happen to be most effective when it comes to fighting. I mean, I wouldn't have lasted this long if I didn't know a thing or two about...well...fighting. Tell her, Robin. Go on. Tell her."

"I think you just did. But Rowena's right. If Richard decides to fight us, the odds aren't really in our favour. Three against God knows how many."

"Make that four," John says.

"Five," Allan adds.

I swivel around. "John?"

"We're coming with you," John says, and then to Rowena, "How are you this morning, lass?"

"I'm fine."

"You don't look so fine to me."

"I told you last night. I haven't been well, that's all. It wasn't your cooking," she tells Much, hastily. "There have been a few people sick in Clun – nothing bad. I guess I caught whatever they had. But I'm all right now."

"Robin?"

John is glaring at me and I know what he's thinking. He's thinking we should be helping the people of Clun. If there is illness in the village, the people will need decent food and medicines. He's thinking we should not be spending our time trying to rescue someone who, in the eyes of both the gang and my people, does not deserve our sympathy.

"I can't, John."

"Really, there's no need," Rowena says, alarmed. "It's just winter ailments, nothing the better weather won't fix."

John nods, reassured. "Very well. We go to Nott...er...wherever the King's camp is."

"It's to the north," Rowena says.

"You've seen it?" I ask.

"No. Luke and Thomas were out poach...I mean, getting us some firewood."

"It's all right," I smile. "Stealing is what we do – remember?"

"I remember. Anyway, Luke saw some men in uniforms he didn't recognise and decided to follow them."

"That would have been the King's men – crusaders. When was this?"

"Three days ago."

"Then the King is probably still in the same place. That's where he'll be holding Guy."

"Shouldn't we wait?" Rowena suggests. "At least until you've rested some more."

"I cannot wait." I glance at John and Allan. I guess they know I am thinking of Christophe and not King Richard.

"We go north, then," John says. "But first, we eat."

Together with Allan, John goes and helps himself to a generous portion of bread and meat and then sits on a tree stump opposite Rowena and me.

"What made you change your mind?" I ask.

"Alice," John says, through a mouthful of food.

"Alice?"

John glances at Rowena.

"Do you want me to go?" she asks.

"No. Stay." John waves her down. He swallows, sighs, then says, "Last night I spoke angrily about Gis...Guy...standing by while my Alice struggled not to have her tongue cut out. But when I went to bed, when my anger had cooled, I remembered the other reason why I get so mad whenever I think of that day. _Regret_, Robin. Regret that I didn't put things right between Alice and me, that I didn't show myself instead of hiding in the forest all those years, that I wasn't a father to my son."

"What does this have to do with rescuing Guy?"

"Because I know what it feels like, Robin, knowing that you could have done something and not doing it. And that is what you will know if you don't try to help him. I may not like him, and I may think that what you and he are doing is wrong, but I don't want you to go through the rest of your days regretting that you did not do something. That is why I am going to help you. That, and because what Much said is right – we are family and family's stick together."

"John, I—"

"Eat," he says, gruffly. "I'll not be stopping to carry you because you've passed out on the way there."

I smile. My funny, beautiful, exasperating gang. I should have known they'd come through for me, in the end.

* * *

"Maybe this won't be so difficult after all," Allan says.

Crouching behind the trees, we contemplate the small circle of tents in the forest clearing.

I point. "There's the King's tent."

"Which one do you think Guy's in?" Much asks.

"I don't know. Possibly none of them. Maybe we should—"

"Robin! Robin Hood!"

It is King Richard.

"I know you're out there. Now, stop skulking in the damn woods and show yourself."

"How did he—"

"Much. Be quiet."

John places a restraining hand on my shoulder.

"Robin. It could be a trap. Shouldn't we—"

"No." I brush John's hand away. "I know the King is displeased with me, but I'm certain he won't hurt us."

"We thought that in the Holy Land," Much says, "and where did that get us? Roped up like pigs on a spit, left to roast in the boiling hot—"

"Enough," I tell him.

"I'm just saying."

I return my attention to the King's camp. Richard is standing in the open doorway of his tent. Two men – the same men who accompanied him to Locksley yesterday morning – flank him. Upon hearing Richard's shout, about a dozen more crusaders have gathered in the clearing. They stand quietly, their eyes flicking between the King and the trees. Christophe doesn't appear to be among them.

"Come on," I say, rising. I turn to Rowena. "You should wait here."

"I thought you said it would be all right."

"I did, but this is not the time to—"

"Am I part of this gang or not, Robin?"

I'd forgotten how smart she is.

"All right. But stay behind me."

I eye Much, Allan and John, say, "Let me do the talking and stay alert."

I ease my bow off my shoulder and let it hang loosely in my right hand. I gently tweak one arrow so that it sits slightly higher in my quiver than the others. John grips his staff. Allan checks the slip of the two blades on his back, nods in readiness. Much swallows and pats his shield as he would a trusty friend.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Aye," John says. "We're ready."

Cautiously, we make our way out of the cover of the trees and head towards the waiting crusaders.

We are still several paces short of Richard, when his two bodyguards place their hands on the hilts of their swords and turn to the King, questioning.

"Not necessary," Richard says.

The men drop their swords back into their respective scabbards and wait.

We continue forwards. Richard smiles warmly, but I am wary and, when I consider we are near enough, I signal the gang to stop.

"Robin Hood," Richard says, no longer smiling.

"Your Highness." I drop to one knee with a wince. Out the corner of my eye, I see Rowena spread her skirts and fall into a deep curtsey, and I sense Much, John and Allan following my lead.

"Loyal to the end, eh, Robin?"

"Sire?"

"Your friends."

I look up and meet Richard's steely-blue eyes.

"You know, Locksley, I should make you kiss my ring, my feet, and just about anything else I can think of. Most men would hang for what you did yesterday."

I bite back an angry retort, return my attention to the forest floor, and wait.

Agonising moments pass. Nessa's tight bandages are cutting into my stomach. Dark spots dance before my eyes. I take a deep breath and grit my teeth, concentrating on a patch of soggy leaf-mould just in front of Richard's shiny, brown boots.

"Robin?" Rowena places a questioning hand on my lower back.

"And...twenty," Richard says. "You may stand."

Rowena's hand slides away. John grunts and grasps my upper arm, helping me to my feet. My left knee is muddy and soaked.

"John," I say, quietly, easing my arm from his steadying grip.

"Are you all right, Robin?" the King asks, with what seems like genuine concern.

"I'll live."

"Doubtless." Richard shifts his attention to Rowena. He smiles, though it seems to be one of deliberation rather than warmth. I sense Rowena blushing under his scrutinising gaze. "You're a very determined man, Robin," Richard says, turning back to me. "Walking all the way here in your condition. The miserable bastard must mean quite a lot to you."

"Where is Guy?" I blurt. "If you've hurt him...if Christophe has—"

"Oh, do stop being so theatrical. Did you really think I would waste my time on that piece of crud when I've a castle to storm, not to mention a throne to reclaim?"

"I thought—"

"Pah! You think too much, Robin. The only reason I took him was because you made a fool of me yesterday, letting me think that—"

Richard clamps his mouth, unsure perhaps how much my gang knows about what went on yesterday.

"Oh, don't worry," he says, noticing my swift study of the waiting crusaders, "I gave Christophe a damn good spanking, metaphorically speaking, and sent him off to Hull to meet my other ships. What? You didn't think I was going to try and take the castle with the handful of men I have here?"

Richard indicates what I now take to be his full complement of men, apart from those who must be guarding Guy.

"I thought that was why you sought me out?"

"Ha! You over-estimate your own importance, Robin. I wanted you because you are a leader of men and...well...we'll talk about the other reasons later. Right now, I can see that I should let you and your men rest. Although, not just men." He turns back to Rowena, looks her up and down. "I see you haven't completely lost your taste for the female form, eh, Robin?"

I don't answer.

"And to whom might you belong, my pretty one?"

"I belong to no one, Sire."

"Indeed."

"I joined up with Robin and—"

Richard holds up a silencing hand. "Feisty, like the last one. But alas, no nobility in you I think, that you would address your King without permission."

"Forgive me, Your Highness. I thought you were asking me a question."

"Impudent, too. No wonder she's with you, Robin. Perhaps this is what causes her to forget her manners. It happens to the most well bred, does it not?"

Richard fingers his bruised jaw. "Guards!"

My hand tightens around my bow.

Richard's two bodyguards step forward.

"Sire?" they chorus.

"Escort these _gentlemen _to the food tent. See they have something to eat and drink. No, just you three," he motions to John, Allan and Much. "The girl stays. She pleases the eye, and God knows I could do with something better to look at than Locksley's disapproving face."

I turn around and nod.

"Master?"

"It'll be all right, Much."

"You always say that."

Reluctantly, Much, Allan and John follow Richard's guards to the farthest tent while I quickly peruse the remaining tents, wondering in which one Guy might be.

"We'll talk inside," Richard says, turning around and sweeping through the flaps of his tent.

I take hold of Rowena's hand and we follow the King.

"Leave us," Richard says to a crusader standing just inside the door of the tent.

"Sire." The man bows and steps outside.

Richard takes off his crown, lays it on a red cushion, and turns to face us. "Not quite the surroundings I'd hoped to find myself in on my return to England but it'll do."

Despite the cramped quarters of the tent, I see that Richard has clung onto the trappings befitting a king. There is a small, sunken fire-pit in the middle of the rug laden floor, a high-backed chair behind it. The King's bed, complete with thick, colourful blankets, lies to one side of the tent, and there is a small washstand nestling among the King's personal effects on the other side.

Richard crosses to a wooden chest from which he proffers two silver goblets and a flask.

"Wine?" he asks, waving a goblet at me.

I shake my head.

"Oh, come on, man. The fire's unlit, you're not sitting in a chair and I'm not standing behind you." Richard flicks a glance at Rowena and I can only imagine the look of bemusement on her face.

Richard pours himself a generous amount of wine, places the goblet on the arm of his chair and proceeds to sit.

I wait for him to indicate that we may also sit, but it seems the King's generosity only stretches so far.

"I knew you'd come, Robin. That's if you hadn't died in the meantime, of course." Richard picks up his wine, takes a generous mouthful, swallows and gives a lusty groan of satisfaction. "Better," he says, "much better. Now, where was I?"

I have a feeling I might be in for one of the King's wine-fuelled rambles, and wonder if he has forgotten Rowena, who I sense is doing her best to hide behind both her skirts and me, her earlier temerity having apparently vanished with the realisation she is standing before the King of England.

"Oh, yes." Richard takes another swig of wine, ignoring the dribble running through his thick beard. "I must say, I was rather hoping to give you a good tongue-lashing for yesterday's misconduct, but now I see I must temper my words for fear of scandalising the young lady."

"Rowena knows."

Richard regards me. "All of it?"

Rowena presses into my side, finds my ringed hand and pulls it into the folds of her skirts. "Robin," she whispers, "you don't have to—"

"All of it," I reply, meeting Richard's interrogating stare.

"I see. Tell me, Robin. Do you bring all your friends into your confidence; tell them all your dirty little secrets? Or just the privileged few?

No, of course you don't," Richard says, when I don't answer. "At least, not without good reason. But perhaps the little lady found out by accident? I guess there is damn little privacy in an outlaw's hideout?"

Rowena squeezes my hand; I guess in sympathy, but also, I suspect, warning me to hold my tongue.

"Of course," Richard continues, "the good people of Nottingham don't know. And even if they did hear of it, I doubt they'd believe that the estimable Robin Hood is capable of such immoral conduct." Richard downs the last of his wine. "Oh, for God's sake, don't look so worried. I'm hardly going to spill the beans, am I?"

I think of Nessa and Elisabeth and think it likely my secret will see the light of day with or without Richard's intervention.

"So, pray tell me," Richard says, turning his attention to Rowena. "How did you come to be caught up with this scoundrel?"

"A happy accident, Your Highness. I was in the service of your brother, Prince John. When I saw the suffering he was inflicting on the—"

"Yes, yes, I know all about that. I want to know about your family. Who and what is your father?"

"My father is lost to me, Sire."

"I see. My condolences. Your guardian then, you must have one, surely?"

"That would be my uncle, Sire."

"And he is?"

"An habitual liar, Your Highness."

"Ah, well, I've met a few of those in my time." Richard gives me a pointed look, turns back to Rowena. "You're looking a little pale, my dear. Perhaps life in the forest does not suit?"

"I don't live...that is I..."

"My dear girl. I think I should offer you a cup of water. Better still, a bucket perhaps." Richard is chuckling, quietly.

I turn to Rowena. She has a hand clamped over her mouth.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

Eyes widening, Rowena whips her hand from mine and, with a mumbled "sorry", lurches towards the tent flap.

"Stop her!" Richard commands, clearly amused.

The crusader standing guard directly outside the King's tent rushes in, smacking into Rowena as he does so. "Sire, I—"

The guard recoils as the contents of Rowena's meagre breakfast splashes onto his boots.

"Guess it's too late for this," Richard guffaws, holding up a bucket that I suspect has only one use.

Rowena heaves a couple more times, though it appears there is nothing left to come up. Straightening up, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and turns to face me. She is crying.

"Rowena, I—"

"Stay where you are, Robin," Richard warns. He motions to the disgusted guard. "Take the poor girl to join the other outlaws."

Cursing, the unfortunate crusader bends down and picks up the woollen shawl that has fallen from Rowena's shoulders. He wipes his bespattered boots with it and then flings the soiled garment through the tent flap. "Come on," he says, snatching hold of her skirt.

With a tearful, "I'm sorry," Rowena turns away and lets the irate guard drag her outside.

"So, Robin," Richard says, pouring himself some more wine and spilling it in his mirth. "Your men have been playing, I see. Or...maybe it wasn't your men?"

I stare at the meaty hand clasped around the silver goblet and at Richard's fat, ruby ring. I think of my own ring. And of Guy.

_Oh, my God. Guy._

"I think you should sit down." Richard sits his wine on the arm of his throne-like chair, picks up a small stool and places it in front of me. "Robin?"

Gratefully, I sit.

"You didn't know, did you?" Richard says, his amusement dwindling in the face of my obvious distress.

I shake my head, unable to speak.

"Oh, Robin, Robin. You know, I was looking forward to us being alone, so I could give you a hard time, if nothing else. But something tells me you're going to have a hard enough time without me adding to your already considerable woes."

Richard lays a kindly hand on my shoulder, and I have a brief image of Guy's long, slim fingers, with their impossibly clean nails, resting on my shoulder in a shadowy alleyway in France.

I shrug away from the King's unwelcome touch.

"How did you know?" I ask.

"What? That the girl is with child? Robin, I may have a penchant for men, but that doesn't mean I haven't been with a woman or two in my time. I saw the way she caressed her stomach, just before she made such a, how should I put it, _forceful _impression on my guard. And I also saw the way she looked at you. It's yours, isn't it?"

_Two times. Once, on top of Guy's leathers, and the other time in my bed. _

"Here." Richard presses a silver goblet into my hand. "You look as if you could do with this now."

I let Richard pour the wine, watch as it reaches the rim of the goblet. "I don't think that I should—"

"Don't be so nervous, Locksley. I'm not about to try and take advantage of you. Don't you think I learned my lesson yesterday, eh?"

Hesitantly, I lift the goblet to my lips and take a sip. It is good wine. I take a more generous mouthful, and then another, and another, until the goblet is empty.

"Steady," Richard says, "or you'll end up in a similar state to the girl. You never could hold your drink as well as me."

Richard prises the empty goblet from my hand.

I don't know what to do. I don't even know if I can stand up.

"You know, I never did expect anything to happen in the Holy Land," Richard says, his desire for conversation seemingly outweighing my present distress, "despite the fact I always felt you'd be up for a little male-male bonding. Because you always kept a candle burning for your English rose. You always had to insist on doing the right thing. Damn near drove me to distraction. But then, in Locksley, I thought I had a chance, until that bastard stuck his sword in me."

_Guy. I came here to rescue Guy._

"It wasn't Guy's fault. He misunderstood and—"

"It doesn't surprise me, that you would bed a man," Richard continues, ignoring my outburst. "But why him? Why the man who tried to kill me? This is what wounds your king." Richard slaps his upper chest for emphasis.

"I didn't plan it."

"The same way you didn't plan for the girl to fall for a child, I suppose?"

_Is that why you came last night?_

_Sort of._

She had come to tell me about the child, to tell me I am going to be a father.

Richard is watching me. "He doesn't know, does he?"

I shake my head.

"You know, it will not be long before the evidence is before his eyes, unless you are planning on telling the girl to get rid of it or secreting her away somewhere."

"You're going to let Guy live?" I ask, ignoring the King's suggestions about Rowena and the child. I will deal with them later. I cannot think about it now. "I don't understand. Why the change of heart?"

"You know as well as I that I never could stay mad with you for long, Robin, even though there were times when I wanted to kick you to hell and back. Besides, having a good argument with you was one of the best forms of foreplay I ever knew. Shame it never went any further. Still, who knows, perhaps one day, and soon, you will tire of that black-hearted swine and find solace with the one man who has always had your best interests at heart."

"You, you mean?"

"Why not? I am the King after all, and I usually get what I want."

Richard's eyes bore into mine.

"And I'm Robin Hood, and I usually get what I want."

"Seems to me you got a little too much of what you wanted this time, Robin."

"Are you going to release Guy?" I ask, flinching at Richard's jibe.

Ignoring my question, Richard says, "You know, I could make things very difficult for you, Robin. But I won't. Because I need you. And not just for your pretty face. You and your men know Nottingham castle. I don't. I understand you've broken into the damn thing more times than I've had hot dinners."

"I doubt that."

"Careful, Robin, or I might change my mind about Gisborne."

Richard waits, letting his words sink in.

"So," he says, "do we have a deal? You help me win back my castle and in exchange your man lives?"

"We have a deal," I tell him.

I make to stand and instead find myself pitching forwards. But before I hit the ground, I find Richard's powerful arms underneath my armpits and he pulls me upright.

"At any other time," he whispers in my ear, "I would use this opportunity for a little skin to skin contact. However, even I am not that cruel."

I take a few steadying breaths and shove Richard away.

"You think me heartless, Robin. Not so. Besides, what good would killing him do? I have enough enemies without you joining their ranks."

"You will release him?"

"Yes. But don't go getting any ideas. I want you to help me get back my castle. And you will. You may have fallen from grace, Robin of Locksley, but if I know you at all, I know that you will not renege on the oath you swore to me all those years ago. Nor will you abandon your people. Then, of course, there is the child."

_How am I going to tell the gang? How am I going to tell Guy?_

"You have two weeks. Two weeks to allow your injuries to heal and to sort out where your loyalties lie. Two weeks to draw up detailed plans of my castle and present them to me. By that time, Christophe will have returned with the rest of my army and my weapons."

"And when will Guy—"

"He will leave with you, today," Richard interrupts, "before I change my mind about not having him strung up. Now, go to your friends. I will have Gisborne brought to you shortly, and you shall have horses for your return journey. Oh, and, Robin?"

"Yes?"

"Take this with you." Richard reaches behind his chair and produces a sword. It is Guy's. "See that the next time he uses this, it is digging into my enemies and not my chest."

"Your Highness." I grasp the cool, leather-bound hilt of the sword and wonder if I might be the next in line to feel its deadly steel.

**to be continued...**


	18. The Right Thing

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright bbc/tiger aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

**A/N: **This is a shorter chapter than usual as I am presently very busy. More when I can, although with family holidays looming you may have to be patient.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30** for the beta.

* * *

**Previously...**

"You have two weeks. Two weeks to allow your injuries to heal and to sort out where your loyalties lie. Two weeks to draw up detailed plans of my castle and present them to me. By that time, Christophe will have returned with the rest of my army and my weapons."

"And when will Guy—"

"He will leave with you, today," Richard interrupts, "before I change my mind about not having him strung up. Now, go to your friends. I will have Gisborne brought to you shortly, and you shall have horses for your return journey. Oh, and, Robin?"

"Yes?"

"Take this with you." Richard reaches behind his chair and produces a sword. It is Guy's. "See that the next time he uses this, it is digging into my enemies and not my chest."

"Your Highness." I grasp the cool, leather-bound hilt of the sword and wonder if I might be the next in line to feel its deadly steel.

* * *

**The Right Thing**

"Are you sure you won't come to France with me, when this castle business is over?" Richard asks, his thin lips twisting in cruel amusement.

My hands tighten around the hilt of Guy's broadsword and, for the space of a heartbeat, I have a murderous impulse to drive it through Richard's expansive chest.

"I'll take that as a no," Richard says, taking an involuntary step backwards.

I stare at my trembling hands, gripping the deadly blade, and at the bulky, silver ring on my middle finger, and wonder if I should make the mistake of handing the sword back to its owner.

"Not quite the turn of fortune we had hoped for, eh, Robin?"

I tear my gaze away from Guy's sword to find Richard staring at me, almost pityingly.

"Sire?"

"My glorious crusade," Richard says, raising both arms to the heavens, as though he blames them for everything that has befallen him, "turned out to be not so glorious after all. My brother plots against me. My lands and chattels in jeopardy and you..."

Richard lowers his arms and takes a step towards me, as though he is about to lock me in a consoling embrace. Then he glances at the sword, still clutched in my hands, and thinks better of it.

"And you," he continues. "Lost the woman you loved, seeking comfort in the arms of a known traitor, and now this – a child. A child conceived out of wedlock, to be borne to a man who has forever championed goodness and righteousness. You say you can find your way out of any tight spot. Well, I'll be interested to see how you can work your way out of this one. Unless, of course, you were to come to France with—"

"No," I say, firmly. "I will deal with this."

"Of course you will, Robin. However, know this." Richard's steely-blue eyes bore into mine, his earlier compassion quickly gone at my refusal to play his game. "When it comes the time to fight, if fighting is what we must do, then I want an archer who can focus on what he must do to protect his king and win the day, and that means putting aside whatever domestic concerns you may have. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes."

"Yes, Your Highness," Richard rebukes.

The King can brandish his title at me all he likes, I simply don't care anymore.

Richard snaps his fingers and a crusader rushes into the tent.

"Take..." Richard pauses, looks at me, "this _outlaw_," he finally says, "to his companions. Then see to organising horses for their departure."

"Sire." The crusader gives a quick bow and beckons me to follow him.

I slide Guy's sword through my belt and pick up my bow.

Straightening up, I find Richard pouring himself another goblet of wine. It looks as though, tonight, the mighty Lionheart plans to get deplorably drunk.

Considering my current dilemma, I wouldn't mind some of the same.

* * *

"Blimey," Allan says. "What kept you? You didn't...you wouldn't..." Allan is eyeing Guy's sword.

I shake my head.

John, Much and Allan are seated around a large trestle table loaded with dishes of bread, meat, cakes and cheeses. I notice Much's plate is full to overflowing and, if I weren't in such a state, I think I'd have made some flippant remark about the dangers of an overfull stomach and jogging up and down on a horse for a goodly while.

The image of Much doing something other than simply riding reminds me of Rowena's unfortunate retching over the guard's boots. She is presently sitting on a stool in the far corner of the tent, wearing John's greatcoat, and looking as if she'd rather be anywhere but stuck in the confines of small tent with four less than clean men, one of whom is the father of her unborn child.

"Have you ever seen bread as white as this?" Much says, sinking his teeth into a huge chunk of bread with something approaching bliss on his face. "And this," he splutters, picking up a piece of fruited cake. "I mean, if I were a king, which I'm not, although...I was a lord once." He gives us a pointed look.

"Oh, no you don't." Allan stabs a piece of meat with his dagger and waggles it at Much. "We're not starting all that Lord Much this, Lord Much that stuff again."

"Well, who knows," Much says. "If this castle thing goes well, maybe King Richard will reward us. We'll no longer be outlaws, and Robin will have his lands back, and I'll have my—"

Allan grins, raises an arm. "Hands up anyone who thinks Much has said this before."

"Mind you, if I were anyone at all, not necessarily a lord," Much continues, sticking up a finger at Allan, "and I had food like this, I'd think, why bother with a gloomy, old castle when you can lord it up in a tent in the forest without getting so much as a scratch on—"

"Much!" John snaps. "Pipe down." Then, to me, "Are you all right, Robin?"

"Yes. Just tired and..." I indicate my stomach, which, although still painful, I have all but forgotten in the wake of what went on with Richard.

John flicks his eyes at Rowena and then back at me, and I have the feeling he knows I'm keeping something from them.

"Come and eat," he says, patting a chair.

I slide my bow from my shoulder, rest the broadsword against the chair and sit. I stare numbly at the various dishes on the table.

"Where'd you get the sword from?" Allan asks.

"It's Guy's."

Allan shakes his head, not understanding. I'm guessing that somewhere between Guy being chained and led out of Locksley manor, and Richard's curt dismissal of me, someone, Christophe maybe, must have found an opportunity to pick up Guy's dropped sword.

"So what did the King have to say about, you know, Guy and stuff?" Allan asks.

The scraping of knives ceases, even Much pauses, cake halfway to his mouth. My friends know why we are here, what this is really about.

"The King's giving us horses," I tell them, thinking I'll talk about the 'stuff' first and Guy after I've eaten something. "Although, you'll have a hard job staying on a horse if you keep that up." I indicate the large jug of wine, now almost empty, sitting at Allan's elbow.

"You're not looking so steady yourself," Allan retorts.

He is right. It was a mistake to drink such a large goblet of wine on an empty stomach.

I swipe up what turns out to be a piece of cake and cram it into my mouth; this will not do. I need to make some decisions, and the first of those is how and when I can talk to Rowena, in private.

"Horses," Allan says. "The King's changed his tune, hasn't he? A while ago he would have you kissing his backside and begging a thousand pardons and now he's giving us horses."

"Robin." John passes me a cup of water. "What about Gis...Guy? What's the King going to do?"

I glance at Rowena. She nods, as if to say it's all right to talk about my lover in front of her despite her – correction, our – predicament.

"Guy is to be released, today."

Allan gestures to the open doorway, says, "The King had better make it quick, because today is rapidly turning into tonight."

I look out at the darkening forest. Allan is right; the day is fading fast and, although we will have horses to speed our progress home, we are still unlikely to reach the camp before nightfall.

"Richard has already given the order for horses to be made ready," I tell them. "It shouldn't be long now."

Rather than looking happy about our imminent departure, Much begins shovelling food into his mouth as if his life depended on it.

"Much," John warns.

"What! I'm only eating."

"I've seen a pig eat with better manners than you," Allan grins.

"I'm hungry, that's all. You wouldn't understand."

"Understand what?"

"About being hungry. I know what it's like to be hungry. In the Holy Land, sometimes..." Much turns to me. "You remember, Robin?"

I do remember. I remember Much crying and pretending it was just sand in his eyes. I remember giving him my food and saying I wasn't hungry. And, mostly, I wasn't. Because my hunger was for something else. It was for the woman I'd left at home, and the men I was tempted to lie with, but never did.

"It's all right, Much," I tell him. "Here." I scoop up Much's satchel and empty the contents out. "Put some food in here, for the journey home. I can carry this stuff."

"Thank you," Much says, stiffly. "At least someone understands."

"Do you want to eat, lass?" John asks Rowena.

"No, I'm fine. I guess I wasn't quite as well as I thought. Later maybe."

She leans forwards, pretending to fiddle with the clasps on John's coat. I notice she has rolled the sleeves back, more than once.

"Perhaps some fresh air?" I suggest, pushing back my chair.

Head still bowed, Rowena gives me the slightest of nods and, clutching John's oversized coat around her, follows me outside.

"Oi! Where do you think—"

"The girl needs some fresh air," I explain to the crusader standing outside the tent.

"Not near me, she don't." The man points to his boots.

"Fair enough." I place a hand on Rowena's shoulder and guide her towards the trees edging the clearing.

"Not too far," the crusader warns.

I raise an arm in compliance. When I judge we are far enough away not to be overheard, I stop walking and turn to face Rowena. She looks even slighter than usual, swallowed up by John's greatcoat. It's hard not to imagine that a swollen abdomen won't have her toppling forwards, but then I suppose she'll walk the way I've seen many a woman with child walk – that awkward, backward-leaning gait.

"I'm sorry about Richard. He tends to—"

"I think John knows," Rowena interrupts, her tears spilling freely now she is away from the gang's scrutiny.

"I don't see how he can know."

"The King knew."

"I know, but—"

"Robin. Your men know we shared a bed, in Locksley. I don't think it will be too hard for them to put two and two together."

"Oh, I don't know." I give her a wan smile. "Much never was one for numbers."

Rowena's lips twitch, on the edge of a smile.

"That's better," I tell her.

"What are we going to do?" she asks, wiping her face with her hands.

There are spits of rain in the air. Rowena is shivering, despite the heavy coat.

"First, we have to get you somewhere warm. You should not be out in this weather in—"

I clamp my mouth, inwardly rage. Why did this have to happen now and today of all days?

"In my condition, you were going to say?"

I am thinking of the manor house, of being warm, out of the wind and rain. I am thinking of the two of us, Guy and me, lying in front of the fire, lust satisfied. I am angry with him for putting me in this position, angry that he had so little faith in me that he would believe I had gone back on my word and offered myself to Richard. I am also angry with Rowena, for messing up the one good thing I've had since Marian's death.

"I will deal with this," I tell her.

"How? How will you deal with it?"

I look towards the King's tent. Nearby, two crusaders are saddling up horses, no doubt the ones intended for us.

"Why didn't you tell me?" I ask. "Why didn't you tell me before—"

"Before what?" she snaps, stepping away from me, as though my nearness offends her. "Before you decided to take a man to your bed?"

"Before now, that's what I meant. You must have known for weeks."

Rowena shakes her head, sorry for her loss of temper. "Not really. At first, I thought I was just sick or something. Then, when I did realise, I was too frightened to tell you."

"You, frightened. I find that hard to believe."

"Robin. I may make out to be all tough and devil-may-care, but a lot of it is just false bravado, a mask I wear in order to deal with all the horrible things that life seems to throw at me."

"Come here," I say, offering her my hand. After a moment's hesitation, she grasps my fingers and lets me to pull her closer.

The rain is getting heavier, pattering through the branches of the trees. I watch as a droplet drips from her sodden fringe onto the end of her nose.

"And then there's him," she says, fingering my ring.

"You told me it was safe," I tell her. "When we were...before we..." I whip my ringed hand from hers.

"Robin, what's wrong?"

"You lied to me."

Rowena meets my accusatory glare, her brown eyes sparking in fury.

"No, I didn't. Besides, I think you were the one who was lying. I think you wanted Guy long before I came along. You must have. Otherwise, why would you have taken up with him so quickly after we did what we did?"

She is right. How often had I imagined Guy and me, together, before that fateful day I stepped back into my house and found myself pinned against the front door, desperate for the two of us to do unspeakably wicked things to each other.

But there is also something else I remember. The girl, in France. The girl with the baby. Here is my chance to have the life I could have had with Marian. The life I should have had, before Vaisey came along and destroyed it.

"You did this to trap me."

The words are out before I even have time to think. But now they are said it makes sense. It explains why she was so insistent that we forget our morals and do what we did.

"What?"

"You said you wanted me and you saw a way of keeping me."

"No, I didn't. I swear. I did want you. But I would never stoop to such a thing. I swear. I was certain it was all right."

"Not certain enough."

Her eyes fill with tears. She is just a young girl, younger than Marian was. I am being unfair.

I reach into the folds of the greatcoat and find her hands. They are freezing. "I'm sorry. I have no right talking to you like this. I knew what I was doing. I should have taken more care. I know how to...well...like I said, I should have taken more care."

"And I'm sorry, too," she says. "Because I did lie to you, although not about this. I once told you that I didn't want you if I couldn't have you completely, but the truth is I loved you, and I wanted you, even when I knew I had lost you. And yes, it hurt when you walked away with him, even if I pretended that it didn't, but I'm good at pretending. I always have been."

"I could probably say the same for me."

"Robin!"

It is Allan, gesticulating from the doorway of the tent. He is pointing towards a flurry of activity at the far end of the camp and I wonder if this is a sign of Guy's imminent release.

I turn back to Rowena.

"Look, I have to be honest when I say I'm not happy about this, but this is as much my fault as it is yours, more so probably, and I will do what I have to do to make things right."

"How?"

"I have often dreamed of having a child."

"Yes. With Marian."

"Yes, with Marian, but—"

"No, Robin. If you cannot care for me—"

"I do care for you. I cared for you the moment you pointed that arrow at my chest back in Locksley."

"Yes, you cared for me, the way you care about all waifs and strays that come your way. Do you remember when we were talking in Locksley, when you told me that you never give up on anybody?"

"I remember."

"I thought you were talking about me. Now I think perhaps it was him – Guy."

"This changes everything."

"No. It doesn't. You don't love me. Am I to believe you will give him up for me?"

"A child needs a mother and father. You and I should know that more than anyone. I will see that this child is raised as it should be raised."

"I don't understand. Are you asking me to marry you?"

I had been thinking of Richard's proposal that I secret Rowena away somewhere. I had been thinking that perhaps I could find a way of staying with Guy while providing for Rowena and overseeing the raising of my child, but now that Rowena has spoken of marriage, I realise what I have to do.

I am sick of doing the right thing. I have been sick of doing the right thing since Marian's death. But, sometimes, doing the right thing is the right thing to do.

I need to tell Guy it's over.

**to be continued...**


	19. A Rock and a Hard Place

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright bbc/tiger aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

**A/N: **Sorry for the wait – real life and all that jazz.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta. And **Jammeke** for the banner.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_I don't understand. Are you asking me to marry you?" _

_I had been thinking of Richard's proposal that I secret Rowena away somewhere. I had been thinking that perhaps I could find a way of staying with Guy while providing for Rowena and overseeing the raising of my child, but now that Rowena has spoken of marriage, I realise what I have to do. _

_I am sick of doing the right thing. I have been sick of doing the right thing since Marian's death. But, sometimes, doing the right thing is the right thing to do. _

_I need to tell Guy it's over._

* * *

**A Rock and a Hard Place**

"Well?" Rowena prompts. She is waiting for an answer to her question.

The last time I proposed, it was a beautiful, sunny day. True, comparing Marian to my bow was a clumsy and less than romantic proposal, but at least it had come from the heart, and when I had finally gone down on one knee, it was because I wanted to.

Today, it is cold, grey and raining. Today, I do not have the heart to go down on one knee, nor speak any words of affection.

"Rowena, I wish I could—" No. I have to make this sound halfway decent. "Rowena, it would make me happy if—"

"Stop," she says.

"What?"

"Please, Robin. Do not say the words if you cannot mean them. I would sooner you say nothing at all."

"Things will be better," I tell her, "when we are back in Locksley. It's just—"

"I know," she says, quickly, as though the moment is paining her as much as it is me.

I take her small hands in mine. They are wet from the rain.

"Are you sure about this?" Rowena asks.

I stare at our clasped hands and realise I can no longer wear Guy's ring when the day comes to slide a much smaller and daintier one on Rowena's finger.

_Everything is a choice, everything we do._

"Yes, I'm sure," I tell her, firmly. "But it will have to be soon."

"I understand," she says. "You do not want the shame of—"

"This has nothing to do with shame. If it did, do you think that I would be—"

A sharp whistle from Allan saves me from voicing the thought. It seems our horses are ready.

"Robin, it is not too late to change your mind. I have not said yes yet."

"Are you saying you don't want to marry me?" I ask, a despicable part of me hoping her answer will be yes.

"Well, considering you haven't actually asked me to yet," she says, then hurriedly. "It's all right. I was only joking and it was a poor joke at that. Forgive me. It's not every day I find myself in the company of both the King of England and my future husband."

"You are right, though," I say, glancing towards an agitated Allan, and realising there is never going to be a good moment. "If this is to be done, it should be done properly."

Awkwardly, I sink to one knee. The ground is cold and wet. "Rowena, will you consent to being my wife?" Far too short, far too formal, but it is all I have.

Rowena breaks into a hesitant smile, a smile that quickly disappears at the King's booming guffaw.

"God's britches! I've seen it all now."

I swivel round. Richard is standing in the doorway of his tent, goblet in hand.

"The Lord of Locksley comes here," Richard bellows, glancing around the camp and looking immensely pleased that he has a captive audience, "demanding the release of his personal bed-warmer, and instead he ends up with a wife! You know, if I weren't so damned drunk, I'd hold a feast in your honour, Robin."

Richard raises his goblet at me, and leans towards a nearby crusader to mumble something into the man's ear. Even from this distance, I can sense the man-at-arms' uncomfortable blush.

Wincing, I come to my feet, once again soggy-kneed, but this time standing in front of my wife-to-be rather than my sovereign.

"I guess asking the King to marry us is probably out of the question," Rowena says, unable to suppress a happy smile despite Richard's crude jibe.

"Is that a yes then?" I ask.

Her big brown eyes flick to my face, and I nod, encouragingly, despite an overwhelming desire to run and keep on running.

"Yes."

Nothing to do now but follow through.

I lean in and kiss her. Her lips are soft and small. She smells of rain and Little John. I encircle her with my arms. Even enveloped by the greatcoat, she feels insubstantial, delicate, like a twig that might snap were I to squeeze too hard.

Tentatively, Rowena wraps her arms around me and sighs into my mouth, her breath warm and strangely sweet.

I jerk backwards.

"We should get back to the others," I tell her, turning away quickly so I do not have to see the disappointment in her eyes.

* * *

"Er...not being funny," Allan says. "But did I miss something here?"

"Not now, Allan," I tell him.

"Only, a moment ago you were talking about horses and getting Guy out, and now you're proposing to a woman. Admittedly, proposing to a man would be kind of...well...odd, but—"

"Allan!" John snaps, emerging from the tent. "Leave Robin be. He'll explain later."

John hands me my bow and Guy's broadsword.

Wordlessly, I shoulder my bow and accept the sword. This sword didn't kill Marian; I have no idea what happened to that one. My guess is that Guy must have come by this one sometime between fleeing Acre and boarding the boat bound for France. Almost certainly, this is the sword he tried to kill me with on the creaking, heavily pitching deck, as I sought to find a quiet spot to answer the call of nature. Apart from the obvious differences, it is much heavier than mine; I cannot imagine my wielding it with the ease Guy does.

"Robin." John nods towards Richard's tent. "Are we waiting for Guy or what?"

"There is definitely something I'm not getting here," Allan says.

"Now you know how I feel," Much says, pushing aside the tent flaps and brushing cake crumbs from his shirt.

Rowena touches my arm. "Robin, do you mind if I go inside for a moment?"

"Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. Some things are better done in private, if you know what I mean."

"Of course. Sorry."

"I won't be long."

Rowena slips inside the tent and it crosses my mind that she has lied in order to give me a moment with my friends.

"You know, don't you," I say to John.

"Aye, I've got a pretty good idea."

I turn to Allan and Much. Both are giving me puzzled looks.

"Rowena's expecting a child," I tell them. "My child."

"God blind me!"

"Oh...er...right...yes, er... how?"

"Crikey, Much." Allan rolls his eyes. "Ever heard of the birds and the bees?"

"Yes, I know, but when did...oh."

"And the torches are on," Allan grins.

John shakes his head at the pair of them and, gently but firmly, leads me away from the tent.

"What are you going to do?" John has both his arms clutched around his chest and I realise he must be chilled to the bone without his greatcoat.

"Rowena has consented to being my wife."

Gently, John says, "And is this what you want to do?"

"It's what I have to do."

John grips my shoulders, gives them the slightest shake, forcing me to meet his penetrating stare. "And what about Guy? How will he feel about it? No, don't look at me like that, Robin. I know how much you care for him and, as much as I can't believe I'm saying this, how much he cares for you. He will not take kindly to being told he is no longer wanted."

I shrug away from John's great hands.

"I can handle Guy," I tell him. "Right now, we have to concentrate on getting out of here in one piece. The King may be in his cups, but believe me, this is when he can be at his most dangerous. He could just as easily order us all hanged, and I'll be damned if my friends are going to suffer because of my failings."

"You have not failed us, Robin."

John does not believe this anymore than I, Guy certainly won't.

"Robin. You are our leader. We will—"

With an angry "save it", I push past my big friend and head for the trees.

"Oi! Where's he off to?" our guard shouts. "The King said—"

"Leave him be," John warns.

I reach the muddy patch of ground where, only a short time ago, I had been kneeling. Somewhere nearby, Guy is waiting, perhaps having learned of his imminent release, ignorant of the drama unfolding in this clearing. I swipe angrily at my face. There will be time enough for tears and self-recriminations once we are away from the King's camp. Presently, I have a young, expectant woman to take care of, a weary gang to get safely home, and a man to save from the threat of the gallows.

* * *

"Er...Robin," Much says, tugging at my sleeve and pointing towards the forest bordering the far end of the clearing.

I turn away from the mighty destrier I have been absently stroking. Walking, or rather shuffling, between two burly crusaders is Guy, his wrists and ankles in chains. One of his captors says something to him – although I am too far away to hear the words – and Guy yanks angrily at his bonds, almost falling over in the process. From this distance, he appears unharmed.

I drop the warhorse's reins.

"Let's go," I say, barely able to get my words out.

Rowena grabs my arm. "Do you want me to wait here?" she asks.

"No. We'll go together, all of us." I take a deep breath and beckon John, Much and Allan to follow me.

My heart is banging away inside my chest. As we walk, I sense the gang doing their best to hang back, if only to give Guy and me a modicum of privacy – laughable, considering at least a dozen pairs of curious eyes are watching us, not to mention the King of England.

The King is still standing in front of his tent, his gaze flicking between Guy's slow hobble and me. If Richard thinks he's in for a show, and I'm about to throw myself at my soon to be ex-lover, he's badly mistaken.

Guy has still not seen me, intent as he is on keeping his footing in both his shackles and on the slushy ground underfoot.

One of the men holding his chains pokes Guy in the ribs and says my name.

Instantly, Guy's head snaps up, his dark scowl quickly replaced by a look of puzzlement and then pure joy when he realises it is it indeed me.

Catching my eye, he smiles that special smile that he has for me and me alone and, for a wild moment, I'm tempted to rush up to him, hand him my sword, and say, "here, get it over with".

Guy's happiness at seeing me is more than I can bear. I stop walking, my heart as heavy as Guy's weighty broadsword – now strapped firmly to the fine warhorse I had been stroking only a moment ago.

The gang bunch up behind me, Rowena at my side.

"I'm really sorry," she says, reaching blindly for my hand and not finding it.

* * *

I don't care that Richard has been drinking. I don't care that he is the King of England or that we made a deal. All I know is that I want to wipe that cruelly amused grin from his face.

"Robin?" Guy's happy smile turns to a look of bewilderment as I rush past him.

"Robin," John echoes, this time in warning.

I am upon Richard so fast, his men have hardly unsheathed their swords before I have the King's fine-spun shirt bunched in one fist, my dagger at his throat.

"If you breathe one word to him," I hiss, nose to nose with Richard, "I swear to God, I'll kill you, whether or not you're capable of drawing your sword."

At least six blades, maybe more, press into my back. I stand my ground.

Richard, his breath laced with the fine, red wine we had drunk earlier, laughs heartily. "Leave him be," he tells his men. "After all, this might be the closest I ever get to kissing this gorgeous fellow."

I let go Richard's shirt and stumble backwards.

At the King's dismissive wave, his men-at-arms lower their swords and, reluctantly, step away.

Satisfied, Richard turns to me, says, "Robin Hood, the prospect of a reunion with your lover has rendered you more incapable of clear thought than me, and I can tell you now, I've had more than my fair share tonight."

"What do you mean?" I ask, still clutching my dagger.

"I mean, I want you to be the one to tell that black-leathered bastard that you've decided to revert to form. Hell and damnation!" Richard pulls himself upright, every inch the mighty warrior. "The man is a traitor and a murderer. I hope your rejection hurts him as much as it should – you too. God knows, you hurt me enough times."

"I am not rejecting him."

"No? What are you going to do, then? Start up some weird ménage à trois in Locksley? Take turns changing the baby? Ha! That's almost worth delaying my return to France. Hell, that's almost worth a castle."

Several choice oaths claw up my throat. I glance at the attentive men-at-arms and keep my mouth shut.

Unexpectedly, the King sags. "Go away, Robin. Leave me to my wine and my fantasies of what could have been."

Richard lifts his goblet to his lips, curses when he finds it empty and, with a disgusted "pah", stomps back to his tent and disappears inside.

A heartbeat later, he shouts, "Two weeks, Robin Hood. I've kept my end of the bargain; make sure you keep yours."

* * *

Boot-draggingly weary, I make my way back to the middle of the clearing. Guy is alone, his gaolers having joined the other men-at arms, Rowena and the gang back with the horses.

Guy is rubbing his wrists; there are red marks where the iron bracelets have chafed his skin.

He looks up at me, still a little incredulous I think, that I have actually come for him. Hesitantly, he touches my arm. I don't have the heart to brush his hand away, but he must have realised my discomfort as, abruptly, he whips his hand from my sleeve. "Sorry," he mumbles.

"Later," I tell him, so only he can hear, and then curse inwardly, because there can be no later, there can be no later ever again.

Guy asks, "What was that about, with the King?"

"Nothing. A misunderstanding."

"We're getting quite good at those, aren't we?"

I don't answer, instead say, "We should get going, before Richard changes his mind about letting you go."

Without waiting for Guy's response, I turn around and stride towards the horses.

It is only when I reach our mounts that I realise we are one horse short. Whether this is a deliberate slight or not, I don't know; I am certainly not going to demand a further one. In fact, I'm almost tempted to snub Richard's fine gesture and leave the horses behind, but one look at Rowena's pale face is enough to convince me otherwise.

I tell Rowena to double up on Allan's horse.

"But, I thought—"

I shake my head, more vehemently than I mean to. With a daggered look at Guy, Rowena turns her back on me and goes to stand closely beside Allan. Allan looks as if he's about to make one of his witty remarks, but one long, hard glare from me is enough to make him think twice.

"I didn't think you'd be this quick to replace me," Guy says, shooting a look at Rowena.

A jolt of fear clutches at my chest, until I realise he means as a gang member.

"She knew where the King's camp was," I explain.

"Oh, I see."

Allan swings into his saddle, offers a helping hand to Rowena, and pulls her up behind him. Rowena winds her arms around Allan's waist.

"Her hair is longer," Guy says.

I mount my horse – a splendid bay. It reminds me of the horse I 'lost' when Guy and me were being chased through the forest. For a moment, I had almost wondered whether it was the same one, but after a quick inspection of its hindquarters found I was mistaken.

"What?" My attention is on Richard's men, still hovering, some with weapons drawn.

"It was short when I last saw her. Now she looks more like..." Guy leaves the thought as just that and hastily mounts his own horse.

I take up the reins and adjust my seat.

"Is it bad?" Guy asks, pointing to my midriff.

"Some stitches, nothing that won't heal."

With a final glance at the King's tent, I give the signal to move off.

Immediately, there is confusion about who should lead our journey home. The gang obviously think I might wish to talk to Guy, while I would prefer to keep my contact with him to a minimum; the longer we are together the harder it's going to be to tell him it's over between us. I could also use a bit of thinking time to decide how I am going to do this. Already, I have decided that I cannot have Rowena and Guy in the same place, nor do I want to take Guy back to the camp. I don't know what's going to happen when I tell him the news about the baby and my impending marriage, but of one thing I am certain: I do not want either Rowena or my friends around when it happens; I have had enough of everyone knowing the ins and outs of my private life.

Thankfully, the narrow track means we have to ride single file.

Making the excuse that Rowena knows the path better than us, I put Allan in the lead. Quickly, I slip in behind him and motion John and Much to follow in my wake. Much points at Guy and gives me a puzzled look. I shake my head and John gives Much a less than gentle slap. Without waiting for an expected protest from Guy, we head off at a decent trot.

* * *

The forest is cold and gloomy, made more so by the coming night and soon Much organises a lit torch, which Rowena carries, so we can see the path easier.

Eventually, when I am no nearer to deciding anything, other than the fact I want us to go our separate ways tonight, we reach a fork in the track: one way leading to Locksley, the other to the camp.

I order a halt and tell Rowena she must return to Clun and that I will come as soon as I am able, adding that Guy and I will be spending tonight in Locksley.

Fearfully, she glances at Guy and at the sword now hanging from his hip. "Robin, are you sure that—"

"No matter what you think of Guy," I interrupt, keeping my voice as low as possible, "he is no longer the killer everyone says he is."

Rowena looks doubtful. She has heard enough stories of the things he's done; she knows what he is capable of.

"He will not hurt me." I shift uncomfortably in my saddle, recalling the ugly slash on my thigh, now scabbed over. "He has changed."

"People do not change, Robin, and certainly not someone who has spent the better part of his life hurting other people."

Allan, quiet during this exchange, decides to speak. "Look, not being funny, Robin, but she's right. It could be dangerous, not to mention fatal, for you to go off with him on your own."

"I know what I'm doing, Allan. Now, mind your own business and just do what I'm asking you to do. See Rowena safely back to Clun, stay there yourself tonight as it's late; you can return to the camp tomorrow." I lay my hand on Rowena's skirt. "When things are sorted, I will come to Clun and we can make arrangements."

"What's the hold up?" Guy shouts, clearly agitated by the delay.

"Go," I tell Allan.

"Robin, are you sure that—"

"Go." It is both an order and a plea.

With a mouthed "be careful", Allan clicks his horse and he and Rowena veer off the beaten path, in the direction of Clun.

Wheeling my horse around, I join Guy.

"Allan's taking Rowena back to Clun," I explain. "You and I will go to Locksley tonight. There are things I need to do there."

Guy smiles, obviously pleased with this arrangement.

"It's all right for some," Much grumbles. "Allan gets to spend the night in Clun. You two get to spend the night in Locksley. What do we get?" he says, indicating John. "A lousy, cold, muddy camp, with a roof that leaks."

"Just ride," John says, wearily, and then to me, "Look after yourself, Robin."

"I will. And John?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

"For what? I haven't done anything."

"You kindly gave Rowena your coat. You must be half-frozen."

"Nothing a cold, muddy, wet camp won't see to rights," John says, glaring at Much.

"When I am a lord," Much says. "When I am a lord—"

"Aren't we going to know it," John says, slapping Much's horse and sending it off at a gallop.

* * *

With everyone gone, it crosses my mind that now would be a good time to tell Guy about Rowena, give him the opportunity to have it out with me here in depths of the forest. But, almost immediately, Guy starts telling me about his time in captivity; how frightened he'd been when he thought Christophe might come for him and then, when he knew he was safe from Christophe, how he'd sat and plotted his escape. He'd almost managed it as well, when his captors let him duck into the trees to relieve himself. But he'd been quickly caught, since when he'd had to suffer the indignity of being watched through every bodily need.

When he has finished telling me this, doubtless thinking my silence is through tiredness or simply the desire to listen, we have reached Locksley and my chance to end things away from the manor house has passed.

"What happened here?" Guy asks, pointing to the spilled food, the blood-smeared cheese and the smashed jug. "Elisabeth have some kind of childish tantrum or something?"

"Elisabeth has gone."

"Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

"I mean, she has returned to her family, where she is needed."

"What about us? What about our needs?"

Guy boots the round cheese across the floor. We watch as it smacks into the far wall, comes to rest under the red and gold tapestry.

"I'm sure we're more than capable of sourcing some food and drink. And I'm the one who deals with the sheets, in case you hadn't noticed."

I shouldn't snap, not while Guy is wearing his sword. Then again, I do want to get this over with as quickly as possible, and it will make it easier for me if Guy is at his snarling worst.

"I wouldn't be so sure about the food thing, Robin," Guy says, ignoring my display of temper and unbuckling his sword-belt. "From what snippets of conversation I heard in the King's camp, it seems as though John's supporters are cleaning out every farm and village for miles around. They're obviously preparing to dig in and don't give a damn that people will go hungry."

Despite my resolve to stay angry, my lips twitch, on the edge of a smile.

"What?" Guy asks.

"You're beginning to sound more like me every day."

I am wondering if he still has the blade he keeps hidden in his boot, as well as the tiny, curved palm-dagger he keeps tucked up his sleeve.

Guy sits in one of the fireside chairs and eases off his heavy boots. "You must be rubbing off on me," he smiles, massaging his stockinged feet.

The dagger is not there.

"The bastards made me strip," Guys says, as if in answer to my silent question. "Until you turned up, all I had on was my undergarments and a scratchy blanket. I thought the King was going to have me flogged, or worse; I guess he knew you'd turn up eventually."

"And why wouldn't I? I took an oath, an oath I'm not about to forswear just because I happen to have taken up with one of the King's enemies."

I'm so tired I could quite happily lay down on the hard stone floor and sleep; it's madness to try to goad Guy into anger so that my news might come as anything less than a shock.

"Oh, I see," he retorts. "You're quite happy to lie with me as long as it doesn't interfere with your allegiance to your precious King. Who knows what words were spoken between the two of you while I was sitting upstairs, keeping quiet, listening to the rain. For all I know, you promised Richard—"

"I did not promise Richard anything, except my loyalty."

"Loyalty!" Guy leaps from his chair. "How dare you speak about loyalty when one moment you are promising me that you will make things right with the King, and the next you're letting him run his hands through your hair?"

"I told you, I thought it was you. I told you to trust me. Instead, what do you do? You come thundering down the stairs brandishing that bloody great sword of yours."

"You're one to talk. What was that stunt with the King about?"

"What stunt?"

"You. At the crusader encampment. Dagger to the King's throat."

"Nothing. It was nothing. A misunderstanding."

"No." Guy is shaking his head. "It was more than that. You don't threaten the King of England without good reason."

"You did," I counter.

"God in heaven! How many more times do I have to say I'm sorry?"

"Once would be a good start."

Guy opens his mouth, quickly shuts it. In three strides, he reaches the dining table. He picks up a large pewter goblet and, for the space of a heartbeat, I think he is about to hurl it at either the wall or my head. Instead, he stares into its depths, and then places it carefully back on the table before turning to me.

"I'm sorry, Robin. All right. I'm sorry. Now, can we please stop this ridiculous argument? I thought you came to rescue me because you wanted me here, with you, not so we would end up at each other's throats. Unless you're after another 'fight me and I'll fuck you' session?"

An image of a bloody knife, wine-stained floorboards and a wall that knows me more intimately than any wall should, dances before my eyes.

"I came to get you because I didn't want Christophe chopping you into little bits."

"And that's it? That's the only reason?"

He's waiting, expectant. I know what he wants to hear. But it's never going to happen – not now.

"We both know what Christophe is capable of. I may not like what you did with the King, but I do have a heart."

"Not as big a one as I thought," Guy says.

"No," I agree, thinking of my poor excuse of a proposal to Rowena, and that I'm about to bring Guy's world crashing down for a second time.

"This is about Marian, isn't it?" Guy says, his eyes bright with sudden tears. "When I rushed at the King it reminded you of Acre, of what I did. And no matter how much I try to make amends, no matter that we share a bed, you are never, ever, going to let me forget that."

With a harsh, choking sob, Guy turns and grips the back of the fireside chair. His gloveless hands are shaking. "I thought we had something. I thought, finally, that—" He takes a shuddering breath. "I thought you cared for me, really cared. But you don't. You're just like her, using me for your own ends."

This anguish, this emotional outpouring, is not what I want. I want Guy angry because I want to be angry – angry enough to spit out the truth. Most of all, I want Guy not to want me anymore. Now, it is clear, I am everything he wants, just as Marian once was.

"This is not about Marian," I say, taking a step towards him.

"It is always going to be about Marian." Guy lifts his head, stares into the non-existent fire. "I should have known," he says, quietly. "I should have known it wouldn't last. I should have known that—"

He whirls around, eyes blazing.

"What?" I ask.

"It's the girl, isn't it? Rowena? You know, I always wondered what became of her. One moment she was there in your gang and the next gone, just like that."

"You know why she left."

"And I also knew you'd get tired of me one day. Tired of us, of this." He holds out both arms, as if to encompass the house and everything in it, including me. "And then, one day I'm gone, and suddenly there she is, ready and willing to take my place. That's if she hasn't taken it already?"

Guy has given me the opening I need. Perhaps I don't even have to mention the baby. Simply let him think I have, as Richard said, 'reverted to form'.

But as I stare at Guy, at the man I've shared my bed with these past three months, the man whose body I know more intimately than any woman I've held, caressed, loved – even Marian – I find the truth slipping away.

"Rowena took us to the King's camp, that's all. She has not come to my bed and she is not a part of the gang. Not anymore."

Guy looks at the table, at the ornate wooden chest in the corner of the room, at the window ledges and, finally, at the wide mantel, as if searching for evidence of a woman's touch.

"I don't believe you," he says. "I think she reminds you of Marian. I think she batted her big, brown eyes at you and you saw your chance to get out of this thing. Because you're afraid of this getting out, afraid of besmirching the name of Robin Hood and everything that name has come to stand for. And you don't want me enough to leave Nottingham, or your people, or your precious gang. You'd rather we ended instead."

A heartbeat goes by – two, three.

Guy glances at his sword, leaning by the fire's hearth.

Pick it up, I think. Pick it up and come at me with it. I'll draw mine, and with any luck, we'll both kill each other and put ourselves out of our respective misery.

"Ever since the boat," Guy says. "Ever since the day you came to my rescue when I would have surely drowned, I knew I wanted you. At first, I thought it was because you could give me back my pride, save me from myself. But then, in France, when I saw it could be more than that..."

Guy moves, not towards his sword as I expected, but towards the front door.

He would have made it too, if I hadn't rushed forwards to block his way.

"Guy, please. I can explain. Not easily, but I can explain." I grab a handful of sleeve. "Guy, I need to tell you—"

"Don't you fucking touch me," he snarls, whipping his arm away. "You're a bastard, Robin Hood. A fucking bastard. I should have killed you on the boat, when I had the chance."

"Well, go on then," I say, placing a flat hand to his chest and shoving him backwards. "Go pick up that damn sword of yours." I unsheathe my own sword. "Go on!"

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Vaisey's lackey, showing his true colours, doing what everyone expects, resorting to bloodshed. Well, fuck you, Robin."

Guy renews his quest for the door, and I wonder if now is a good time to tell him he's not wearing any boots.

He is quick, but I am quicker. Sending my sword skittering across the stone floor, I lurch backwards until my back hits the sturdy oak door.

"Get out of my way. _Hood_."

"No."

Guy raises a bunched fist. "Get out of my way, or I'll put this where it'll hurt the most, and believe you me, you won't be able to fuck the mouth of a river let alone a woman's slit when I've finished with you."

"Go on, then," I say, my hands dangling at my sides. "Do your worst."

Guy startles, flicks his head briefly at the fireside rug – remembers.

As do I.

"Robin."

Not outlaw, not Hood, but Robin.

I notice one of the fastenings on his doublet is missing, and the leather ripped near the top right shoulder: slashed with a knife or some other sharp implement. Guy would not have been happy about this.

I want him. Here. Now. Against this door. The way we did – almost did – all those weeks ago: mouths and tongues and desperate longing. For a moment, I think I can smell lavender – dried flowers from Elisabeth, the young girl who knows we share a bed but not what we do in it – crunching under my boots.

"Guy, we can't do this...I can't do this."

Maybe he can hear the quiet desperation in my voice, or maybe he's remembering what I'm remembering. Either way, he rests a hand on my shoulder. He's so close I can smell him: not rain, not John's greatcoat; but leather and warm breaths and a comfortingly familiar body odour.

We are back in that shadowy alleyway in France; his long, slim fingers resting on my shoulder, an insistent want swooping low in my stomach – a want I now know and understand.

Guy smiles, slides his hand from my shoulder to my chest. His other hand slips around my waist. I don't resist. Guy moves his face closer to mine.

"I don't know what that whore promised you," he says, his breath hot on my cheek. "But I am going to remind you just how good we are together."

His lips brush mine, featherlike.

I make some small noise that couldn't sound any less like a protest if I tried. Guy kisses me again, harder. I part my lips, inviting in his tongue.

"Thought so," Guy murmurs.

Yanking my shirt from my belt, he slips a warm hand around my back, pulling me into his chest. A fastening, or maybe a belt buckle, presses into my injured stomach. I jump.

Guy pulls away. "Sorry, I forgot. Maybe we should—"

"No." I grab his arm. His blue eyes, dark with desire, lock onto my own. "It's all right." I bury my free hand in his hair, dragging his head forwards.

"God, I missed you last night," Guy groans, pushing into me.

I shift my position slightly, to better accommodate my injury. I can feel his arousal – and mine. The hard, wooden door is digging into the back of my head.

Letting go of his arm, I fumble blindly behind my back.

"You want this?" he asks, unlacing my breeches.

"You know I do."

"Then say it."

"What?"

"Let me hear you say it."

A warm hand pushes into my breeches – stops. We have been here before. Please, God, no one knocks on the door this time.

"I want you," I say.

"More than that."

"Please."

"Better."

"Bastard."

Guy grins.

I drop the door latch.

**to be continued...**


	20. Secrets and Lies

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

**Thanks to Sunnyday30 for the beta. And to everyone who is reading and/or commenting.**

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_God, I missed you last night," Guy groans, pushing into me._

_I shift my position slightly, to better accommodate my injury. I can feel his arousal – and mine. The hard, wooden door is digging into the back of my head. _

_Letting go of his arm, I fumble blindly behind my back. _

"_You want this?" he asks, unlacing my breeches._

"_You know I do."_

"_Then say it."_

"_What?"_

"_Let me hear you say it."_

_A warm hand pushes into my breeches – stops. We have been here before. Please, God, no one knocks on the door this time._

"_I want you," I say._

"_More than that."_

"_Please."_

"_Better."_

"_Bastard."_

_Guy grins._

_I drop the door latch._

* * *

**Secrets and Lies **

"Here."

Guy guides my ringed hand – the one that's just dropped the door latch – into his leathers, while furiously working them off with his other hand. He grunts as my fingers touch his hardening flesh.

"You want this?" he hisses.

"You know I do."

"Not the girl?"

"Not the girl," I echo.

"Good."

My knife-belt hits the floor. Unlaced, my breeches fall obligingly to my boot tops, while Guy's leathers cling stubbornly to his thighs. Undergarments drop. Eager fingers find my ball sack. Hard up against the door, I cannot move. Guy realises, makes small rocking movements.

Booted, I am closer to his height; even so, I still have to rise onto the balls of my feet so we are hip to hip.

I close my eyes, clutch Guy's upper arm with my free hand, for support as much as anything. The slip and slide of our cocks is impossibly wicked and wonderful.

_Not the girl. _

The girl has a name, it is Rowena, she is carrying my child, and I made her a promise.

His beautiful hand slides away and I think I might kill him.

"Let's do ourselves," he says. "Watch each other."

He pulls away from me. I stare into his eyes, dark, desirous – nod.

One more time. One more time with Guy and then I will tell him.

"Shirts off," Guy says.

I tear my shirt over my head, curse as it tangles with my tag. _We are Robin Hood. _I don't know why I still wear it.

Guy's nimble fingers free leather strap from shirtsleeves. The tag joins my shirt on the floor.

Hurriedly, Guy peels off his doublet, shirt and undershirt. He kisses me – a deep, hungry kiss. I return it, equally hard.

"_Don't you two ever eat?" _

"_Only each other." _

It is the sweetest taste – dark, seductive; it tastes of those freezing nights in the Holy Land, lying in my tent, trying not to dwell on the filthy talk of men with men.

Guy eases away slightly, pressing his forehead into mine. His long hair is tickling my chest, his increasingly fast breaths chasing my own.

I look down at what we are doing. My hand mirrors his. When Guy speeds up so do I, when he slows, I do likewise.

Guy curses, a sure sign he's close.

My silver ring slides back and forth. I should never have put it on. I should never have kissed Guy in the forest.

"Please, God," I silently implore, not sure if I'm praying for my damned soul or the fact I'm about to spill.

Guy jerks and beats me to it.

* * *

"Bed?"

Twelve paces to reach the foot of the stairs, seventeen stairs. I have that long to gather my wits, tell him about Rowena, and face the consequences.

"Bed," I say.

I let go Guy's upper arm; there are red marks where I've clung on. I follow the length of his arm down to his wrist. The welts left by the iron bracelets are still there.

Heedless to the mess running down his thighs, Guy pulls up his braies and leathers.

"Thank you," he says, sliding warm arms around my back and pulling me in for a kiss.

My legs are freezing.

Determinedly, I push Guy away.

"We should move away from the door," I tell him. I am thinking of the gang. If they start having second thoughts about letting me go off with Guy, I certainly don't want them finding me like this. Knowing about it is one thing, seeing it is another.

Guy nods. He bends down, scooping up his discarded clothing. "I'll go up," he says. "Don't be long."

I watch as he pads towards the stairs, his milky, white back a stark contrast to his black leathers and long, dark hair. At the foot of the stairs, he turns around and grins; he knows I am watching him. He takes the stairs two at a time.

Soon, Rowena will be climbing those stairs, panting with the effort.

It is late and I am tired, too tired to have it out with Guy tonight.

Equally uncaring of the telltale slip that's making its way towards my boots, I pull up my braies and breeches, swipe up my shirt, and guiltily sling my tag around my neck. I pick up my knife-belt, start to wind it around my waist, change my mind, and hang it across the back of a chair.

Wearily, I make my way upstairs.

* * *

I pull the heavy curtain aside, expecting to find Guy by the washstand. Instead, he is sitting on the edge of the bed, still half-dressed. Even in the dim light of a single candle, I can see the dagger, the one that usually lives beneath his pillow, turning around and around in his hands.

Guy twists his face towards me.

I am wearing boots, I am quicker than he is, and I am going to get very cold, very quickly, if I make a run for it.

Guy looks me up and down, says, "You're like everyone else, refusing to trust me, expecting nothing but the bad."

"I thought...I thought that—"

"I know what you thought. You thought I didn't believe you – about the King, about the girl. Must I spend the rest of my life saying sorry?"

"No, of course not. It's just—"

"I was angry earlier, spoke without thinking. I know there will never be any other girl for you apart from..." Guy looks down at the dagger.

"Marian," I finish.

"Yes, Marian." Guy sighs, tosses the dagger from hand to hand, catching it neatly. "I was just wondering whether it will fit inside my boot or not."

"Oh."

He slides the blade back under his pillow.

"No good?" I query.

"Hilt's too wide," he explains.

"I could buy you another one."

"Steal one, don't you mean?"

"Once a thief—"

"Always a thief," Guy finishes. "I'm surprised I have anything of worth left. I'm sure if you thought there was money to be made in soft leather goods I'd be running around wearing next to nothing."

I look him up and down, as though considering.

Guy shakes his head. "You're impossible, do you know that?"

"So I've been told," I say, thinking of Much.

Guy pats the sheet. "Are we going to spend the rest of the night discussing weapons and your prowess as an outlaw, or are you coming to bed?"

Without waiting for an answer, Guy stands and crosses to the washstand in the far corner of the room.

While he is busy with water and cloth, I hook my tag over the bedpost, toss my shirt onto a nearby chair, sit on the edge of the bed and ease off my boots. Now for the tricky bit.

Since starting this thing with Guy, I have slept naked, as he does; after the things we get up to, it would be ridiculous not to. However, wearing no clothes often leads to temptation, and I am not going to play any more sex games with Guy tonight. I am going to go to sleep, and in the morning, I am going to tell him about Rowena.

Guy splashes his face, spits cold water. Not bothering to dry himself, he pads back to the bed, works off his leathers and slips out of his braies, all the while smiling that slightly lascivious smile of his as he watches me watching him. He flips back the heavy blanket and I do the same on my side.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Guy indicates my breeches.

_Think, Robin, think. _

I glance at the restored bedside table, on top of which sits the little pot of grease, and next to that, Guy's black leather gloves, rarely worn these days.

"When did you last eat and drink?" I ask, a plan forming.

"I don't know." Guy sits, pulling the blanket over his bare legs. "This morning."

"How about I go find us something?"

"What, at this hour?"

"Why not?"

"I'm really not that hungry, Robin. Besides, I doubt we have much in the way of food, discounting the stuff Elisabeth dropped on the floor."

"What about some wine then? I know I wouldn't mind a drink."

I am thinking that a decent wine might knock us both out, and that would solve the naked in bed together thing.

Guy licks his lips; I can see the idea pleases.

"All right," he says. "But don't be long, otherwise the sun will be up before we know it."

I go downstairs, fetch wine and goblets but, more importantly, my knife belt; there is no point in not preparing for the worst.

* * *

I take as long as I dare, in the hope that by the time I return to our bedchamber, Guy might have fallen asleep. Instead, he is standing in front of the shuttered window, muttering to himself.

"Guy?"

"One day," he says, fiddling with the worn blanket that plugs the missing board, "you will fix this thing."

I let the 'you' reference pass.

Cursing, Guy smacks a balled fist into the broken shutter, shattering yet another board.

"At this rate, we will have nothing left," I say.

Guy hurls the blanket in my direction. "You do it then." Turning his back on me, Guy tucks his long hair behind his ears and stares out at the night.

He is angry with me, although I'm not sure if it's over the fact I took so long downstairs, or the broken window, both of which pale into insignificance beside the painful secret I am carrying.

It hurts, this silence between us, and I can end it, must end it.

Determinedly, I make my way around the bed, pick up the discarded blanket, and join Guy at the window.

Looking towards the hill beyond Locksley, I can make out the trees, whipping back and forth. Ash-grey clouds are scudding across the night sky, the pallid moon winking in and out.

"Look at it," Guy says.

"What, the weather?"

"No. Locksley. Your village. Which, by rights, should have been my village."

"What about it?" I ask, ignoring Guy's dig.

"All those innocents, sleeping peacefully."

"Maybe not so peacefully," I counter, "considering what's going on in Nottingham."

Guy finds my ringed hand, laces his fingers through mine. It is a comfortingly familiar gesture, and one I would normally welcome.

"Guy. I think we...I mean I, ought to—"

"Do you think the villagers know," Guy interrupts. "About you and me?"

I think of Nessa and her daughter, Elisabeth – the lavender girl.

"No," I lie. "I don't think so."

"You know, Robin, tongues will start to wag, sooner or later; this charade of me being here as your guest must be wearing thin, especially with some of the more mistrustful peasants."

I am staring at the dark waters of the pond and at the tall reeds surrounding a goodly part of it. A village boy, Robert, nearly drowned in that pond, would have, but for the quick thinking of my father, and Guy launching himself at me to stop my interfering.

"I will tell them that you are to remain here as long as there are outside forces at the castle. I will tell them that they need your protection when I am away in the forest."

"And they will believe you," Guy says. "Because you are Robin Hood, and people believe everything you say."

"Yes...they do."

Hair blowing about his face, Guy leans out to pull in the open shutters.

"Storm's coming," he says, wrestling the shutter closed and helping me secure the blanket.

I turn to the bed, the bed I will one day share with my wife, Rowena.

"I know," I say.

* * *

Guy waves towards the bed. "Shall we?"

_Tomorrow. I will tell him tomorrow. _

We walk to our respective sides of the bed, and I am back to the tricky part.

Guy sits, leaning against the headboard, waiting for me to finish undressing.

"How about a drink," I say, picking up the jug of wine, "to celebrate a successful rescue?"

"I'd hardly call it a rescue, Robin, considering the King let me go."

Ignoring Guy's lack of enthusiasm, I pour two goblets of deep red wine. Guy watches, and, almost before I finish pouring, grabs one. I know how he feels. After Marian's death, we both drank – a lot. And even though that terrible time is past, the desire to block out the memories is still strong in each of us.

"To us," he says, touching his goblet to mine.

To avoid replying, I gulp a generous mouthful of wine; I do well not to choke.

"You know," Guy says. "Sometimes I look at you, and I wonder what it would have been like if we'd grown up together, if I hadn't been forced to leave Nottingham?"

"I don't know," I reply, silently cursing the fact that Guy has chosen tonight of all nights to be in one of his talkative moods. Perhaps the drink wasn't such a good idea after all. "We'd have probably been at each other's throats all the time. We never could see eye to eye."

"Funny that we can now."

"Yes...funny."

"I guess we wouldn't have done this though?" Guy pats the bed.

"No, probably not."

"Are you sorry?" Guy asks.

"About what?"

"About this, about us?"

"I try not to think about it."

"Really?"

"Guy, in case you hadn't noticed, it's late and I'm shattered."

"Sorry. I was just wondering."

Guy downs the last of his wine, turns to me, a wicked grin on his face. "Is there some more of that?"

"Plenty," I say, glancing at the jug. "But you're on your own. I need to sleep."

"Shame," Guy says. "Only I was thinking that with enough of this inside us, alongside a jug or two of water, we might have a bit of fun." He slides his hand tellingly between his legs.

"Guy," I say, clamping down the urge to leap up and shout, _I fucked Rowena and now she's having my baby and we're going to get married and you can get lost_. "I am not in the mood to play your sordid little games tonight. Apart from anything else, I have this ruddy great gash in my stomach. And before you say it, no, I am not as tough as I look."

Guy traces a finger along the line of neat stitches peeking over the top of my breeches.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, clearly sorry for suggesting we do anything other than sleep.

"Yes. It does."

"Christophe really has it in for you, doesn't he?"

"Christophe has always hated me."

"Why?"

"Because I'm everything he isn't."

Guy runs his fingers through my chest hairs, resting a flat hand in the hollow where my tag would normally lie. "I used to hate you for the same reason."

"I know."

We sit quietly, watching the rise and fall of Guy's hand, each waiting for the other to speak.

"We'll need to watch this, Robin," Guy says, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "See it doesn't become infected. I don't want to be the one who has to tell the King you're not able to come to the party because of what his fuck-mate did to you."

Unwittingly, Guy has given me the excuse I need. "I'm keeping these on tonight," I say, indicating my breeches. "It might stop you smacking into this and ruining the stitches."

"Are you saying I thrash about in my sleep?"

"Often, though I'm sure I do the same sometimes."

Carefully, I ease my way under the blanket, settle my head on the pillow, and pray fervently that sleep quickly claims the both of us.

Guy lies down, pulling the blanket to our shoulders. He presses into my back, his knees fitting neatly into the backs of my knees, his warm breaths blowing the too long hair at the nape of my neck.

"We're all right, aren't we, Robin?"

_I can't tell him now, not like this._

"Only you seem troubled tonight, on edge."

"I think I have every right to be, don't you?"

Guy drapes a heavy arm across my chest and finds my ringed hand, the one lying on the sheet.

"You'd tell me," he says, "if we weren't?"

I ache to turn over and crush my mouth to his, blocking out the world and all its hurts. But doing so will only lead to another 'up against the door' moment, and I don't wish to make things any harder than they already are.

Resolutely, I continue facing away from him, staring at the dressing room door. Behind that door, I longed desperately to have my way with Guy, and I poured all that longing into a girl I hardly knew.

Guy strokes the back of my hand. "Robin, I want you to know that this means everything to me. I'm not talking about the whole bed, fucking thing, although that's undeniably good. I'm talking about me being with you, fighting alongside you, us working together for a common cause. I know I'm becoming a better man because of you. I think Marian would see the good in me now; I think she would approve of me.

Thunder rumbles, the storm almost overhead.

Guy presses his nose into the back of my neck. "What was it that you needed to tell me earlier?" he asks.

"What?"

"Earlier, you said you need to tell me something, wanted to explain something. What was it?"

_Guy, please. I can explain. Not easily, but I can explain._

"Not now. Go to sleep."

There is another rumble of thunder, quickly followed by the first drops of rain. Moments later, the steady tap tap becomes a boisterous drumming on the roof timbers and wooden overhangs.

"Easier said than done," Guy says.

"It'll pass," I tell him.

Guy renews stroking the back of my hand, tracing his fingers along my own, pausing on my ring, that tangible piece of evidence symbolising our togetherness. The day I take that ring off is the day it all ends.

His caressing hand drifts to my upper thigh. I wait for it to slip between my legs, anticipate the gentle rub of flesh on material. I want him. I want him to move that hand back and forth and back and forth, until I can't stand it anymore. I imagine myself giving in to his earlier suggestion, giving in to my darkest, deepest desires and to hell with the consequences. He will laugh, delighted that I have decided to play his game.

Heart beating fast, I push his hand away.

"Can't blame me for trying, Robin. Even half-dressed, you are quite irresistible."

"Perhaps I should have worn my mail instead," I say, ever quick to toss off a joke to hide my hurt.

"Unfortunately," Guy says, "that day is going to be upon us all too soon, if everything the King says is true."

"We still have time," I say. "There may yet be a way of ending this thing without bloodshed."

"Not this time, Robin." Guy wraps his arms around me. "I'm not frightened – of dying I mean. Are you?"

"No," I lie.

"The day I stand atop the battlements of Nottingham Castle with Robin Hood will be a proud day for me," Guy says.

My nightmare – the one with Guy plummeting to the castle courtyard – smacks into my brain with such force I almost cry out.

_Guy is dead, the back of his head smashed like an egg. Blood, as bright as holly berries, seeps along the cracks in the cobbles. Guy's hair is slick with it. He is on his back. His eyes are wide open, staring at the bluest of skies, but they will never see me again._

"A proud day," Guy repeats, on the edge of sleep.

A tear escapes, hits the sheet.

"Robin? Are you all right?"

I deepen my breaths – in out, in out, feigning sleep.

Guy kisses my middle back. "Goodnight, my..." A pause. "Goodnight, my love." No more than a whisper, but I hear it all the same.

Moments later, he is asleep, snoring softly.

When I am sure he will not wake up, I slip off the side of the bed, find my shirt, and creep downstairs.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I sit on the hearthrug, staring into the non-existent fire. I had thought to see to myself so I might also sleep, despicable though that might be, but seeing the table where we share food and conversation, the rug we sometimes lie on, the door that shuts out the outside world, I know I cannot.

_Everything is a choice, everything we do. _

There is no way out. I have no more choice about marrying Rowena than I did about becoming an outlaw.

Chilled to the bone, the first streaks of dawn slipping through the hall's shuttered windows, I quickly and quietly make my way back to our bedchamber.

Carefully avoiding the floorboards that creak, I pick my way to the bed, and slip under the warm blanket.

Guy throws out an arm, mumbles something, and falls back to sleep.

I stare at the broken shutter and wait for morning.

**to be continued...**


	21. Too Close for Comfort

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

**Previously...**

Guy kisses my middle back. "Goodnight, my..." A pause. "Goodnight, my love."

No more than a whisper, but I hear it all the same.

Moments later, he is asleep, snoring softly.

When I am sure he will not wake up, I slip off the side of the bed, find my shirt, and creep downstairs.

Hugging my knees to my chest, I sit on the hearthrug, staring into the non-existent fire. I had thought to see to myself so I might also sleep, despicable though that might be, but seeing the table where we share food and conversation, the rug we sometimes lie on, the door that shuts out the outside world, I know I cannot.

_Everything is a choice, everything we do. _

There is no way out. I have no more choice about marrying Rowena than I did about becoming an outlaw.

Chilled to the bone, the first streaks of dawn slipping through the hall's shuttered windows, I quickly and quietly make my way back to our bedchamber.

Carefully avoiding the floorboards that creak, I pick my way to the bed, and slip under the warm blanket.

Guy throws out an arm, mumbles something, and falls back to sleep.

I stare at the broken shutter and wait for morning.

* * *

**Too Close for Comfort**

_My love_. He called me _my love_.

Sleepily, I turn over, stretching out an arm, seeking his familiar warm body.

My left hand slaps cool sheet. Guy is not here.

Instantly, my eyes snap open, the memories of last night, and the thing I was meant to do and didn't, flooding back.

The front door bangs shut. Heart pounding, I push myself up, and turn to the shuttered window. Even with the blanket still wedged firmly between the broken boards, I can tell it is full morning.

"Robin!"

"Much?"

Feet thump up the stairs, just the one pair.

Much shouts from the upper hallway, "If you've hurt him. If you've done anything to him, I'll...I'll—"

"What the hell are you on about, you stupid little man?" Guy shouts back.

I slide a hand under Guy's pillow, relieved to find the knife still there.

Flinging the heavy curtain aside, Much half falls into the room, pulling himself up short when he sees me.

"Where's the fire?" I ask, breathing fast.

"There isn't any...I mean, you're not...he didn't."

I push the knife back under the pillow. "Much, calm down. What's wrong?"

"You're alive," he says, blinking hard as though doubting his own eyes. "Alive, and in bed, and quite possibly completely naked, and—"

I flip back the blanket, and Much quickly looks away.

"I'm sorry, Robin. I thought. I thought—"

"Thought what?"

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wince as my stitches catch on the top of my breeches.

Much turns around. "Oh," he says. "You're not..."

Angrily, I thump across to the window and push the shutters open. Yesterday's grey skies have been replaced by a cloudless blue; a raw wind stings my face as I lean out the window and gulp in the icy air in an effort to fully wake up.

"Are the others here?" I ask, turning to face Much.

"Er...John is here, and Allan is...er...not here...and Guy is also here...and...and..."

Much is staring at the bedside table, at Guy's gloves, the half-filled jug and empty goblets, and the little pot of grease.

"And?" I prompt.

Much shuffles his feet. "Yes...er...right," he says, trying to look everywhere but at the bed and failing miserably.

"Much, what's going on?"

"I could ask you the same thing," he says, flapping his hands at the bedside table.

"Sorry?"

"You didn't tell him, did you?"

I glance at the items on the table, feel as guilty as sin.

"Much, I really don't want to have this conversation right now."

Shivering, I move away from the window.

"When do you ever?" Much mumbles. He strides over to the wooden chair, the one that serves as my dumping ground for clothes, belts and coin purse. "Here," he says, throwing me my shirt. "I may not like you so very much right now, but that doesn't mean I'm happy to stand by while you catch your death."

I swipe the shirt before it flies out the open window and quickly pull it on.

"Well?" Much asks, tapping his foot.

"Well what?"

"Well just when are you going to tell him about Rowena and the whole baby, marriage thing?"

I place a silencing finger to my lips, glance fearfully at the curtain.

A heartbeat goes by, then another, and another. I lower my finger and breathe out. Whatever Guy is doing, he is clearly not eavesdropping on our conversation.

"Much, I had every intention of telling Guy about Rowena. It's just that, last night—"

"Oh, please," Much says, rolling his eyes. "You are unbelievable, do you know that? I spent all last night worrying you might be lying injured in the forest, or worse, and—"

"I am injured."

"You know what I mean. And all the while you were here doing...well, judging by the mess downstairs, having a food fight. Which is definitely better than swords, I agree, although, if I may say so, a complete waste of good food, and—"

"Much!"

"You know," Much says, unhooking my knife-belt and tossing it onto the bed. "You know if you weren't my master—"

"I'm not your master."

"If you weren't my _friend_ then, I'd hit you on the head with a spade – well, maybe not a spade because that would hurt – a lot – but with something, anything to try and knock some sense into you."

I tuck my shirt into my breeches, pick up my belt, wind it around my waist, and buckle it loosely.

"Much, my friend, you do believe me when I say I never meant for this to happen?"

"What, this as in not telling Guy you're going to get married, or this as in—"

"This as in all of it," I say, sitting on Guy's side of the bed and staring out the window at the brilliant blue sky.

Much sighs, skirts around the bed, and sits next to me, our shoulders touching.

"You could not have done it," he says, lightly tapping my ring, and then whipping away his hand, as though the silver band might corrupt him by its very touch alone.

"Yes," I say. "I could not have done it."

For a short while, we sit in silence, the only sound that of the wind and the whistles it makes as it whisks between the timbers. It reminds me of the day we boarded the ship bound out of Acre, when Much sat next to me in our tiny cabin, when I gave in to my grief and cried into his chest. I am not sure he and I will ever find that closeness again.

"I am sorry, Much."

"What? About this whole being with Guy thing, or about not telling him what you should have told him?"

"The last bit."

"So, when are you going to tell him?"

"I don't know."

"What do you mean, you don't know?"

"I mean there were things he said last night that make it more complicated."

"How can it be more complicated than it already is?" Much asks.

"Much, listen to me. Last night, Guy was telling me how much this castle thing means to him, what fighting alongside me, us, means to him. If I tell him about Rowena and the baby, and he refuses to listen to reason, who knows what he will do. You and I both know what a temper he has. What if he decides to tell John's supporters of the King's whereabouts, before Richard's army arrives? What if he turns against us?"

"You don't know that will happen."

"No, I don't. But I can't take the risk."

"So, you're just going to carry on...carrying on?"

"No, not like that."

"Won't he be suspicious, if you don't...you know?"

"I'll think of something."

"Perhaps you could tell him his feet smell."

"Trust me, Much, Guy is probably the most unsmelly man I've ever known."

"I'll take your word on that," Much says.

The front door bangs again, and I leap from the bed.

Jumping up, Much unsheathes his sword and sprints towards the curtained doorway, grabbing his shield on the way.

I rush round to my side of the bed, hurriedly pull on my boots, and dash after him.

It is only when I reach the bottom stair that I realise I have my boots on the wrong feet.

* * *

John is sitting at the oak dining table, arms folded, staring at the red and gold tapestry on the far wall.

Guy is standing by the fire, arms also folded, staring at John. His sword is where he left it last night, leaning against the hearth. I flick my eyes around the hall and spy my own sword, lying on the floor, next to the blood-flecked cheese.

"Robin," John says, quietly.

"John. Is everything all right?"

"I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

Guy clears his throat, uncrosses his arms. "Is this some private code that I'm not privy to?" he asks, looking at John and me in turn.

I step off the last stair, wanting nothing more than to swap my boots over and tell everyone to get lost, including Guy.

"I told the gang that we need to get together to start making plans. I didn't mean them coming here." I give John a hard stare.

"Blame him," John says, pointing at Much.

"Well _excuse me_ for showing some concern for our friend and leader," Much retaliates.

"Robin," Guy asks, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," I tell him. "A misunderstanding, that's all."

"Another one," Guy says, pointedly rubbing his wrist.

John grunts, and I notice there is food on the table.

"What's all this?" I ask.

"What does it look like?" Guy says.

"Heaven," Much sighs, discarding his weapons, and hurriedly scraping back a chair.

"I'll give you heaven," John threatens.

I turn to Guy, demand to know where the food came from.

Guy waves a dismissive arm towards the front door, says, "I got it from some old peasant's house."

"What do you mean got it?" I ask. "How did you get it?"

"I told them that if they didn't give me all their food, I'd snatch their children, and then burn their house down with them in it."

"Guy, you can't just go around—"

"I told them Robin Hood was hungry and that he'd see them right," Guy interrupts. "What do you take me for?"

Much opens his mouth, as though to speak, and I shake my head in warning.

I apologise.

"Apology accepted," Guy says. "Although I'd appreciate it if you could at least try to remember I'm one of the good guys now."

Much reaches for some bread, and John slaps his hand away.

"Ouch. What was that for?"

"We came here to talk to Robin, not to eat."

"Well, we can eat and talk at the same time, can't we?"

"With the amount you stuff into your mouth, I don't think so. Robin?" John waves at the chair opposite and, gratefully, I sit.

John leans across the table. "Is everything all right?" he whispers.

"Everything's fine, John. I'll explain later."

"Join us?" I say, indicating the empty chair at the head of the table.

Smiling, Guy makes his way towards us. Ignoring John and Much's disapproving faces, he picks up the chair and places it next to my own.

"Good health," he says, raising a cup, and then shuffling his chair closer to mine, so our arms are touching.

"Health, yes, right," Much says.

"Tell me," Guy says, scowling at Much. "Exactly what did you mean earlier?"

"Earlier when?" Much asks.

"When you charged upstairs like a mad thing, accusing me of hurting Robin."

"Did I say that?"

"Yes, you did. Why exactly would I want to hurt Robin?"

"I...er...well, you know."

"No, I don't know. So enlighten me."

Catching Much's eye, I silently implore him not to say anything about Rowena.

Much shoves a piece of bread into his mouth, chews frantically, while John looks as though he can't decide who to be the most sorry for – Much or me.

I glance at Guy's sword, and wonder if he will make a play for it, despite the fact there are three of us.

"There," Much says, gesticulating.

We follow the line of his wagging finger, and realise he is pointing at the track of dried blood on the floor.

"I thought maybe you'd stabbed him, or something," Much says, turning to Guy with a look of triumph.

"That was Christophe," I tell him.

"Oh, right," Much says, slapping his forehead. "Stick, wrong end thing."

Guy raises his eyes heavenwards, mumbles some obscenity, while I thank the Lord that Much is not as simple as I once accused him of being, and wonder if I can manage to eat without throwing up.

* * *

Disaster averted, Much starts tucking into breakfast and, with a nod from me, John does likewise.

"You should eat," Guy says, noticing my empty plate. "I don't want you wasting away to nothing. I need something to wrap my arms around of a night."

John chokes, hurriedly drinks. Much slides so far down in his chair I'm surprised he doesn't end up under the table.

Grateful that Allan is not here to make some caustic remark, I pick up the bread, and take a few dry mouthfuls.

Guy lays a hand on my thigh and quietly asks if I'm all right. I tell him that my injury is still giving me grief, and that I have my boots on the wrong feet. He laughs at that last one, an amused laugh that would have had me smiling but for my present predicament.

"What?" Much asks, thinking it must be something he has done.

"Private joke," Guy tells him.

"Talking of privacy," John says, pushing up from his chair. "I think you and I need to get going.

Much?"

"Oh, right, me." Much looks longingly at the remains of breakfast.

"Yes, you," John says, tugging Much's sleeve.

Much gives me a 'please let me stay and I'll love you forever' look.

"Stay," I say, patting the tabletop. "Both of you. There's more food here than Guy and I can eat by ourselves."

"Then why don't you give it to the poor, like we're _supposed_ to be doing," John says.

Guy lays a warning hand on my arm.

John notices, apologises, and sits down.

"Well, this is nice," Much says, slopping vegetable stew into his bowl.

"Very cosy," John mumbles.

I can't stand it. Pushing out of my chair, I walk as fast as my mis-booted feet will allow, until I am standing at the window, looking out at my beloved village; the village that would turn against me in an instant if they knew the sort of man I have become.

I hear the scraping of a chair, and it does not surprise me to find Guy at my elbow.

"You shouldn't let them upset you, Robin."

"They are my friends, Guy. And the last time they set foot in this hall you and I were nothing more than..."

"Nothing more than what?"

"Wishful thinking, on my part."

"Perhaps you should be more careful about what you wish for."

I want nothing more than to take hold of his hand and say, 'I have everything I wish for'. Fortunately, a shrill yelp saves me from having to say anything.

"Trouble?" John asks, his chair crashing to the floor.

"No." I wave John back to the table. "Just some children larking about by the pond."

"I hope they don't fall in," Guy says. "That pond can be pretty dangerous, as we both know."

"I'll deal with it," I tell him, heading for the door.

* * *

It's a relief to be outside, even if the wind is biting, and there's the possibility that someone will notice that Robin Hood can't remember how to dress properly.

There is no time to waste, however, as two of the bigger children are already perilously close to the pond's edge.

Running awkwardly, I spot the flaxen-haired head of Elisabeth and, next to her, a similarly fair-haired little girl, who I recognise as Elisabeth's younger sister: the same one who grinned at me from the stairs as her mother, Nessa, stitched my wound.

I reach the girls, and Elisabeth smiles and falls into a curtsey, tugging at her sister's worn dress. Refusing to imitate her older sister, the little girl flicks her long plaits over her shoulders and gives me a gap-toothed grin.

"Has the tooth fairy visited you yet?" I ask.

"There's no such thing as fairies," she replies, tugging her dress from Elisabeth's firm grip.

"Esther," Elisabeth reprimands. "You must say My Lord."

"My Lord," Esther says, dropping into an exaggerated curtsey and almost falling over.

"You may be right about the fairies," I tell her. "In which case..." I reach for my coin purse, which is not there, of course. "Sorry I—"

Another frightened cry, and a curse that should not come from the lips of a child, alerts me to the two boys playing on the other side of the pond.

"Later," I tell the girls.

Heedless of my boots, I start sprinting around the pond.

* * *

Skidding to a stop, I count six children, all boys, varying in age. Four of the boys are simply scuffing about in the mud, the youngest of whom is proudly showing off his dirt-caked hands to his friends. They are watching the two older boys, one of whom I recognise as Joseph, the boy I rescued from the roof. The other, a tall, dark-haired lad, who reminds me of Guy as a youth, is threatening Joseph with a thick, sharp-ended stick.

"Lads," I warn, holding out an appeasing arm, and edging my way towards them.

"Piss off!" the taller boy snarls, prodding Joseph in the stomach.

Joseph retreats, his back foot sinking into the glutinous mud. Quickly, he grabs a handful of reeds in an effort to keep from falling into the water.

"Put the stick down," I say firmly. "And move away from the edge. Haven't you been told how dangerous it is to play here?"

The dark-haired boy glances in my direction. Surprised to find himself confronted by Robin Hood, he lowers the stick but, as Joseph prises his boot from the mud, he whirls around and resumes taunting the younger boy. I notice Joseph is also clutching a stick, although a much slenderer and shorter one than his opponent.

As Joseph turns and smiles at me – his saviour – the dark-haired boy sees his chance and lunges, knocking Joseph's stick from his hand. With a self-satisfied grin, and a rude hand gesture aimed in my direction, he advances on Joseph.

"Stop! Now!" I order.

"Or what?" the boy sneers, not taking his eyes off Joseph.

"Or you'll have me to answer to."

"Do I look scared?" he retorts.

"Not yet, you don't. But believe me, when you're kicking and thrashing about in that cold water, begging me to pull you out, then you'll look scared."

"I won't need you to pull me out. I can swim."

"I can't," Joseph says, seizing the opportunity to seek a safer footing.

"Perhaps you'd rather answer to Sir Guy, then?" I say, instantly berating myself for using Guy's name as a deterrent.

Looking less defiant now, although still pointing his stick at Joseph, the dark-haired boy slowly backs towards the other children.

"Good," I say. "Now, why don't the two of you shake hands and make up?"

Joseph gives his adversary a tentative smile and proffers a mud-smeared hand. The other boy shakes his head, scowling.

"What were you playing?" I ask, not because it isn't obvious, but because it reminds me of the fights Guy and I used to have as children, and the times our parents had had to intervene to keep us from seriously injuring each other.

"What does it look like?"

"I'm...er...Robin Hood," Joseph interrupts, his cheeks reddening. "And Roger's pretending to be Gisborne."

"I see."

"We were having a sword fight, and I was winning, until I got my foot stuck in this horrible mud."

"You were not winning," Roger retorts.

"Yes I was. Because I'm Robin Hood and Robin Hood always wins."

Roger bares his teeth, snaps at Joseph.

"Lads, please," I say, stepping between them. "Guy, I mean Sir Guy, and I no longer fight. We are friends now. He is part of my gang. And you are wrong, Joseph; Robin Hood does not always win."

"You're lying," Roger cries, whirling round to face me. "Him and Robin Hood can never be friends. Gisborne is a rotten, hateful man. Because of him my father lost a hand, and then his arm got infected, and then...and then he died."

Biting his lip, fighting tears, Roger turns his back on me. I take a couple of steps towards him and place a friendly hand on his shoulder. Roger smacks it away.

"Don't touch me," he says. "And don't pretend to care about me."

"I'm sorry," I tell him, "about your father. I wish I could change things. I wish I could bring him back. But I can't."

"You could punish Gisborne," Roger retorts, still facing away from me. "You could make him pay for the things he's done. You could chop off his hand like he did my father's."

An eye for an eye – if all of his victims demanded such, Guy would be nothing more than a heap of mangled flesh and shattered bones.

The thought of my people attacking Guy, of him losing his clothes, his dignity and finally his life, is like a kick in the gut, more painful than the cut of Christophe's knife.

Determinedly pushing the thought away, I say as calmly as I can, "You should know that some of the things Gisborne did, he did because the Sheriff of Nottingham ordered him to. He didn't have a choice."

_Everything is a choice, everything we do._

"I don't care. I hate him, and I wish he wasn't here, and so does my mother."

Hurling his stick into the pond, Roger starts running towards the huddle of cottages at the far end of the village.

"Roger, wait."

I stare at my extended arm, at my ringed hand, reaching out for the angry, tearful, running child. Roger is right, and I am wrong. The Sheriff did not make Guy cut off a man's hand, nor did King Richard. It was Guy's choice to do so, and I condone that choice, by lying with him, by choosing to believe he was not responsible for his own actions. I have ignored my conscience, ignored my friends, so that he and I could be lovers.

I catch up with Roger easily, despite my boots.

"Roger, listen to me. I am going to—"

Roger whirls around. "You never help us anymore," he says, his tear-streaked face both pleading and accusatory.

"I'm sorry," I say, wondering how many more times today I will say those words. "It's not that I don't want to. It's just difficult. There are things happening in Nottingham, Roger. Grown up things that need not concern you, and—"

"Don't you want to be Robin Hood anymore?" Roger asks, more curious than upset now.

I have no answer to that, instead say, "Sometimes people do bad things and they are truly sorry for those things. Sir Guy is trying to make amends, to atone for his wrongs. I invited him into my house as my guest, and I would like it if you...if the people of Locksley could accept that and treat him with some respect."

"How can you like him? How can you even bear to be in the same house with him after all the things he did? Elisabeth says that—"

"Elisabeth says what?" I ask, my heart banging against my ribcage, my throat unbearably dry.

"She says that you and he share a bed, just like her mama and papa."

"And you believe her?"

"No. It can't be true."

I put my hands behind my back, tug at my ring. I am going to take it off, today, now. My hands are freezing, and the ring will not slide over my knuckle.

"Will you teach me to fight?" Roger asks, not waiting for my denial or otherwise, choosing to believe that Elisabeth has simply been making up stories.

"I would sooner teach you to make friends."

"Who needs friends?" Roger says.

"We all need friends," I tell him. "I know my life would be a less happy one without mine."

The ring finally slides over my knuckle, and I drop it in the mud.

Roger glances past me, at the children who have been gradually creeping nearer.

"You can be Robin this time, if you want to be," Joseph says. "Here." Joseph offers Roger his stick.

After a moment's hesitation, Roger accepts the peace offering. "Thank you," he says, giving Joseph a shy smile.

"Now remember," I tell them. "No more playing by the edge of the pond. Promise?"

"We promise, Master Robin," the children chorus.

"Good. Now go home, go play, go make your parents proud of you."

The children start to walk away, Roger following in their wake.

I turn back to the house. I am halfway there when someone taps me on the back.

"I think you dropped this," Roger says, holding out my mud-coated ring.

"Oh. Thank you." I curl my fingers around the ring, squeezing it so tightly it cuts into the palm of my hand.

"Are they your friends?" Roger asks, pointing.

I turn around. Much is standing at the manor house window, John closely behind him.

"Yes. They are my friends."

"Can I be your friend, too?"

"I would like that."

"Will you come to my house one day, meet my mother?"

"One day, soon, yes."

Smiling, Roger says, "Be seeing you then."

I watch as he lopes towards the other children, who are waiting for him, then turn and make my way to the house.

Wiping the muddy ring on my breeches, I slip it onto my middle finger.

One day, this ring will stay well and truly buried, but not today.

**to be continued...**


	22. Leaving

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

**A/N: Thanks to Sunnyday30 for the beta read.**

* * *

**Previously...**

"I think you dropped this," Roger says, holding out my mud-coated ring.

"Oh. Thank you." I curl my fingers around the ring, squeezing it so tightly it cuts into the palm of my hand.

"Are they your friends?" Roger asks, pointing.

I turn around. Much is standing at the manor house window, John closely behind him.

"Yes. They are my friends."

"Can I be your friend, too?"

"I would like that."

"Will you come to my house one day, meet my mother?"

"One day, soon, yes."

Smiling, Roger says, "Be seeing you then."

I watch as he lopes towards the other children, who are waiting for him, then turn and make my way to the house.

Wiping the muddy ring on my breeches, I slip it onto my middle finger.

One day, this ring will stay well and truly buried, but not today.

* * *

**Leaving**

I came that close to arousing Guy's suspicion that all is not well between the two of us. God bless young Roger.

I glance at the mud-free ring, back on the finger it has encircled since the first time Guy kissed me. No matter what the cost to me personally, this ring will stay on my finger until we have taken Nottingham Castle. Guy will have his proud moment, his wish to fight alongside Robin Hood and his men, and only the death of one or both of us is going to stop that from happening.

I reach for the door latch, change my mind and sit on the much-oiled wooden step, deciding first to swap my boots onto the proper feet.

Then I hear them – arguing.

Heart thumping, I struggle into my second boot, which, because I am in a hurry, refuses to slide on easily.

"...you burst into our house, uninvited. You eat our food."

"Your food!" Much exclaims. "And it's Robin's house, not yours."

"You make judgments," Guy continues, his voice steadily rising, "about me, about Robin. Robin made his choice a long time ago. He chose me. Me!"

It seems the 'better man' Marian so often talked about flies out the window the moment I'm not around, although I'm guessing it wasn't Guy who started this particular argument.

"My master is not himself. He has not been himself since you stabbed...since the Holy Land."

"Robin knew perfectly well what he was doing, he still does. What gives you the right to say what we should or shouldn't do behind closed doors?"

I stare at my mud-smeared hand, resting on the latch; no tiny band of silver is going to save me – save us – if Much is going to open his blabbing mouth and tell Guy about Rowena and the baby.

"I've known Robin far longer than you have, that's what gives me the right. That, and the fact—"

"Much," John warns. "Leave it be."

"No. If Robin won't say anything then—"

"This is Robin's business, not ours."

I wait, my hand trembling on the cold iron latch, torn between the desire to shut them up and the desire to see how far they will go.

"We're a gang," Much protests. "And gangs stick together, that's what you said; and Robin needs our help because He is watching and when I go to Heaven, which please God I will, then I don't want Robin to be—"

"Enough!" I yell, slamming the door back on its hinges.

"Robin. We were just...that is to say, I was just..." Much swivels his head this way and that, as though looking for a place to hide, or a door to run through.

"Are the children all right?" John asks, picking up his staff and deliberately placing himself between Much and me.

"They're fine," I grind out.

"Robin?"

I hold up a hand, warning Guy to keep out of it, nimbly sidestep John's considerable bulk and advance on Much.

Cringing, Much stumbles backwards. Four more paces and I am looming over him. Much slams into the heavy oak table, slopping vegetable stew onto the bare wood.

"Robin," he quivers. "I wasn't going to tell him about...not about...only—"

Grabbing his tunic, I thrust my face into his. "You never know when to shut up, do you?"

"I'm sorry, Robin. But what you're doing here, with him, it's just wrong, plain wrong. You are my friend, my best friend, and I love you, and I hate to see you throwing your life away on...on..."

I let go of Much's clothing and snatch up his satchel.

"Get out," I hiss, thrusting the leather bag into his arms.

"But...but..."

"Get out, or I'll throw you out."

I step back a pace, giving Much room, clenching my hands at my sides, resisting the urge to smack him in the jaw.

Much whirls around and starts grabbing bits from the table, stuffing them into his bag and muttering about only wanting to help, to make things right. I can tell by the way that he's getting more food on the tabletop than into his bag that I've hurt him – badly. He picks up a round loaf of bread and tries, unsuccessfully, to shove it into his bag. The bread hits the stone floor and rolls under the table. Laying his satchel aside, Much ducks down and crawls under the table to fetch it.

"Will you just come on," John growls.

I glance at Guy and he shrugs his shoulders as if to say 'it's your show'.

Taking far longer than necessary, Much finally backs out from under the table, snatches up his satchel and thrusts the now less than perfect loaf into it.

"Are we done?" John asks, hands on hips.

Much nods, head down, busy buckling his bag.

"Here, then." John gathers up Much's sword and shield, holds them out.

Wordlessly, Much accepts his weapons. It takes him three attempts to sheathe his sword, and when he finally raises his head, I see he is crying.

"Much, I—"

"Don't you touch me," he sobs, dodging my outstretched hand. "Don't you fucking touch me."

That stings. Much rarely, if ever, uses such earthy profanities.

"Much, I'm sorry, truly. I didn't mean to—"

"No, you never mean to, but you always do."

His tear-streaked face reminds me of Roger, the boy who lost his father because of what Guy did.

_Elisabeth says that you and he share a bed, just like her mama and papa._

No – nothing like her mama and papa.

Giving me a less than gentle shove, Much pushes past me and stomps towards the front door. Halfway there, he stops in his tracks and, wiping his face on his sleeve, he rounds on Guy.

"This is your fault. I wish Robin had left you to drown on that stupid, _stupid_ boat. I wish—"

"If it weren't for me, you snivelling little twit, Robin would be lying fathoms deep at the bottom of the ocean."

I notice Guy's hand is edging towards his sword.

"What? What do you mean?"

Vehemently, I shake my head at Guy. Much does not know that, burning up with fever and desperately missing my dead wife, I came close to ending it all. How, if it not been for Guy's quick reactions and his firm grip around my wrist, I would indeed be rotting away on the seabed.

"Stop it," I say. "Both of you." I turn to Much. "What Guy says is true. On the rowing boat I was very ill. I...fell overboard. Guy grabbed me. He saved my life."

Screwing up his face, Much digests the information, then says, "And you saved his, which makes you even. You don't owe him anything."

"You're wrong. I owe him everything. After Marian died, after I stopped trying to drink myself to death, I—"

"Oh, that's right. Bring Marian into this, just like you always do. You know this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with...with..." Much flaps his hands, searching for the words he doesn't have.

"Please, Much. Can't you just learn to accept things the way they are?"

"No. I've tried, Robin. I've really tried." Much flicks his eyes around the hall, as though trying to memorise every feature, every piece of furniture, finally settling on the faded red and gold tapestry on the far wall.

"Two hundred and twelve squares," I tell him, wondering if Much will remember the times I tried to teach him to count in both Latin and French, and how I would tease him and how cross he would get, until he realised what I was doing, and we would both fall about laughing.

"If you say so," Much says, unsmiling.

"Would it help if I said I'm happy?"

"But you're not, are you? I mean, you can't be because of..."

"Because of what?" Guy asks, his fingers curling around the hilt of his sword, suddenly suspicious that there is more to this than Much fretting over whether I'll go to Heaven or not.

"I...er...I don't know," Much stutters.

Guy pushes away from the mantel, points his sword menacingly at Much. "What don't you know?"

"I...er...what was the question?"

"Enough of this!" Whipping up his staff, holding it horizontally, John creates a barrier between Guy and Much. "As I live and breathe there will be no blood spilt here today." He glances at Guy, remembering perhaps the day he clobbered him on the forehead, the telltale mark still there, partially hidden by Guy's long hair. "Like Guy said earlier, Robin has made his choice and, whether we like it or not, we have to respect that choice." He glares at Much. "Is that clear?"

"Very well," Much says, nodding slowly. "I'll respect it, but I don't have to like it."

"No one said you did." John lowers his staff, steps back.

Sheathing his sword, Guy resumes leaning against the mantel, crossing his arms and affecting a look of indifference, yet clearly still puzzling over Much's near slip.

Regarding me gravely, John says, "We'll be on our way, Robin. You know where we are if you need us."

I nod my thanks.

Turning my back on my two friends, I cross to the tapestry, near to which lie both my discarded scimitar and the blood-smeared cheese. I pick up the sword, turning it over in my hands. I can hear John speaking quietly to Much, telling him to take some of the bread out of his bag so that Guy and I might have something to eat along with the stew.

Ignoring them, I concentrate on the gleaming steel blade in my hands, on the sliver of pale face and brown hair staring back at me. I notice my hair is getting long again, but I doubt Much will be willing to cut it, and I'm not sure I should let Guy loose with a pair of cutters. I watch as my reflection blurs, wait for the sound of the door opening and closing, wait for the moment when Guy and I will be alone and I will have to answer the questions he will surely ask.

With a final, "come on", directed at poor Much, John heads for the door, but instead of the sound of the door opening, I hear two knocks, a pause, then two more, quickly followed by a single knock. I whirl around, my blade held out in front of me.

"Allan?" John queries, recognising our danger signal.

"No. The Pied bloody Piper. Who do you think? Let me in."

John knocks the latch away, flings open the door, and Allan tumbles into the room.

"Phew. Thank God you're all here," Allan says, quickly scanning the room. He's out of breath, has obviously been running – hard.

"Trouble?" I ask.

"Yeah. Of the Black Knight shaped kind."

"When? Where?"

"Soon and here." Allan straightens up, waving an arm towards the village.

We peer outside. All seems calm. Even so, John hurriedly shuts and bolts the door.

"But we were just going," Much says, looking sadly at the bagful of food clutched to his chest.

"Well now you're staying," Allan says.

"Tell me, quickly," I demand.

"I don't know, Robin, but I think we might have been tumbled."

"What do you mean?"

"I think the Black Knights know something is up."

"Do they know about the King, where he is?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know this?" Guy asks, with more than a hint of suspicion.

Allan ruffles his sweat-soaked hair, wags a finger at the table. Understanding, I pour him a goblet of ale, and he takes a long drink.

"Needed that," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well?" Guy snaps, clearly agitated by Allan's lack of concern that swarms of Prince John's men might descend upon the place he regards as his home at any moment.

"All right, keep your hair on. And point that blade somewhere else, will you?"

Guy sheathes his sword and, realising the danger is not imminent, I do likewise.

"Tell us," I say.

Allan downs the last of his ale and hands a miserable looking Much the empty goblet. Grinning, as if in fond memory, he says, "Well, after I took Rowena to Clun I went to The Trip, just for something to warm me up like."

"Someone more like," Much mutters.

Sticking up a finger at Much, Allan continues, "There were a few Black Knights in there. They didn't seem at all bothered showing themselves outside the castle walls. In fact, they were making quite a song and dance about it. Where's the great Robin Hood now, they was saying. Hiding in the trees, ain't he? Nah, he's not. He's at his manor, and not only him. Gisborne's there as well."

"Is there a point to any of this?" Guy asks.

"I'm getting to it."

"Go on," I urge.

"Oh yeah, says another one. Thought they was enemies. Not now. All cosy like they are now, in their great big house. How cosy is cosy, they was saying. Well...er... are you sure you want me to..."

"All of it, Allan."

I need to know. I need to know how far the rumours have spread, if they have gone beyond Locksley and the King's camp. Our continuing to make the village drops, to help feed my people, depends on me still being Robin Hood, on the people still trusting me.

"It ain't good, Robin."

"Just tell me."

"Right...er...where was I? Oh, yeah. They was saying how we didn't have any womenfolk, how Robin Hood's woman was killed in the Holy Land, and how all you had left were your men, and..."

"Allan?"

"Sorry, getting hungry looking at that lot. Mind if I...?" Allan swoops on a hunk of bread.

"Will you just get on with it," Guy growls, flexing his sword hand.

Allan notices, hastily swallows. "Er...right. Well, I'd had a couple of drinks by then, and was just minding me own business, but enough was enough. When they started insinuating that you and Gis...I mean Guy—"

"I hate to point this out," I cut in, "but they haven't exactly got it wrong, have they?"

"Still, that's not the point."

Then I notice. One of Allan's sleeves has a tear that I don't remember from yesterday, and there is a cut on the back of his hand. Either of these could have come from running through the trees at great speed, but Allan has said enough to make me think otherwise.

"You got into a fight?"

"Only briefly. There were too many of them to hang around for, so I scarpered, but not before I heard them saying that they was coming to Locksley."

"What? Because of Guy and me? Because of what we—"

"Nah. That was just stupid, drunken banter. You know what it's like when a bunch of men get together. Nah, they think you're up to something, and that's why you haven't been showing your face round Nottingham. They think you're gathering an army together."

"Still, I appreciate you defending my honour, so to speak."

"Least I could do, Robin."

It strikes me that Allan need not have mentioned the stuff about Guy and me, and I wonder if this is his less than subtle way of saying 'serves you bloody right'.

"And where exactly do they think I'm going to get this army from?" I ask.

"I don't know. I think they think you got people hidden in the forest and you're training them up. Before they started mouthing off about you and Guy, I heard them talking about the castle's latest constable – Murdac I think his name was. Apparently, he had a brother. Anyway, this brother was the one whose head you took off when those guards came to get Rowena."

I recall the grisly scene, and the headless Black Knight; the one I felled with my flying scimitar in order to save both Allan and Rowena.

"So this has nothing to do with me attacking the castle, this is personal?"

"Looks that way."

"It appears you have more enemies than me, Robin," Guy remarks dryly, stepping away from the fireplace and moving to my side. Our arms touching, his warm hand finds my ringed one, gives it a quick squeeze, and lets go before the others might notice. I don't care. All I care about is the fact that very soon Locksley and its inhabitants may well be in danger because of something I did.

"You said soon, Allan. How soon?"

"Today. This morning."

Even Much can do the sums.

"You had all of last night to come and tell me this, and instead you decide to come now," I rage. "What the bloody hell happened, Allan?"

Guy takes a step forwards and I grab hold of his wrist. I might be cross with Allan, but that doesn't mean I want to let an irate Guy loose on him.

"Well?" I demand.

"I...er...ran into this man like."

"What man?"

"You wouldn't know him. Anyway, he reckoned I'd robbed him out of his inheritance. Cheek of it. Took me ages to sort it all out. And then you wouldn't believe it, but on me way here there was this nun, and—"

"Allan!"

I let go Guy's wrist, wondering which one of us will thump Allan first.

"All right, all right," Allan says, stumbling back a pace, holding up his arms defensively. "I fell asleep. Just don't hit me, Robin. I've got a blinder of a headache this morning."

This time, Guy grabs hold of my wrist.

"You fell asleep?" I say, trying, unsuccessfully, to wrench my arm from Guy's firm grip.

"Yeah. After I got away from the tavern I figured I'd better lay low for a bit, just until I was sure I could get away clear. I hid in the old brewer's yard. You know, next to The Trip."

"And then what?" I ask.

"Well, like I said before; I'd had a couple of drinks, maybe more than a couple, and I must have dozed off. Sorry, Robin."

"I'll give you sorry," John says, pushing in front of Guy and me and looming over an increasingly penitent Allan.

"Robin?" Allan pleads.

"Leave him, John. We don't have time for this. If the Black Knights are indeed on their way to Locksley, we need to leave – now. And we also need to warn the King to be on his guard."

I'm aware of Guy's warm hand still firmly wrapped around my wrist.

"I'll need this back," I tell him, giving my arm a gentle tug.

Guy releases me and I stride across to the window. On the far side of the pond I see a lone woman hanging sheets, and a man with a small child clutching his leg, drawing water from the well; there is no sign of any men-at-arms.

"Are you sure you heard right?" I ask, swivelling to face Allan.

"Look, not being funny, but I know what I heard. Besides, when I woke up, I remembered something."

"Remembered what?" I ask.

"It was before you came back to England, Robin. When I was nothing more than a cutpurse, living on me wits. For a while, me and Tom..."

Allan pauses, swallows hard, doubtless remembering his dead brother, the man I failed to save from Vaisey's rope.

"Me and Tom had this little scheme of snagging barrels of ale from the brewer's yard when nobody was looking. Once when we was there, we were spotted and had to make a quick exit. As luck would have it, we found this tunnel, used by the servants to transport butts of ale from the brewhouse up to the castle butteries.

"Anyway, I went to see if it was still there and it was, and that's when I heard them talking about coming to get you. I heard Murdac, at least I think it was him, yelling at them to 'get the murdering bastard' and that he was 'going to string you up by the balls.' "

Guy catches my eye. I know what he is thinking: not one but two tunnels, something we might use to our advantage when trying to take back the castle; that's if we can get to the castle before the Black Knights get to us.

"He's making this up," Much says, shouldering his satchel and marching towards the front door.

"I'm not making it up, I swear."

Without warning, John leaps towards Much, grabbing a handful of shirt and jerking him backwards.

"What are you—"

"Look!" John urges, pointing out the window.

I see it. Horses, horses bred for battle, and mounted on those horses are men-at-arms. They are still too far away to see clearly, but I have no doubt that their surcoats bear the insignia of Prince John.

"Told you," Allan says, all but sticking out his tongue at Much.

"Christ!" Guy unsheathes his sword, looks at me.

"No," I tell him. We're leaving."

"But they'll see us, Robin," Much protests.

"We'll go out the back, use the stables for cover, head for the forest."

"Our horses?" Guy queries.

"No time," I tell him.

Guy nods, sheathes his sword.

"Bugger," Much says, dropping his bulging satchel onto the hard, stone floor.

I lay my ringed hand on Guy's arm. "I need my bow, it's upstairs."

"My knife, too," Guys says.

Nodding, I charge up the stairs.

Flinging the heavy curtain aside, I make first for the wooden chair, swiping up my leather jerkin, water skin and coin purse. Jerkin on, I secure my belongings to my knife-belt, at the same time re-buckling it to make it tighter. The leather strap is cutting into my stitches, but there is no time to put on a dressing. I fasten my fully laden quiver to my back and sling my bow over my shoulder.

Sliding a hand under Guy's pillow, I find his dagger, the one that won't fit into his boot, and tuck it into my belt.

I am about to leave the room, when I notice my tag dangling from the bedpost. Unhooking it, I loop the leather strap over my head and tuck the carved wooden pendant inside my shirt.

For a couple of heartbeats, I stare at the bed where Guy and I have shared so many intimacies, the bed we will never share again.

Downstairs, Much is making inane remarks about always having to leave food behind, and John is shouting at him, threatening to wrap the lengthy satchel handle around Much's neck if he doesn't shut up. I can hear Guy and Allan talking, too, though their voices are quieter, and I cannot make out what they are saying.

Tearing my eyes away from the bed, I glance at the little bedside table. Hesitantly, I finger Guy's leather gloves and then put them to my nose, breathing in their leathery scent. I consider stuffing them into my belt, although whether to give them to Guy or to keep them for myself, I don't know. I leave them where they are. My hands hover over the little pot of grease; there will be no need for this anymore.

I pick up the pot, lower myself to the floor and push it under the bed. As I do so, my hand hits the wooden box, empty now, the last of the precious coins tucked into my purse. I drag the box out from its musty hiding place, open it and drop the pot of grease inside.

Box in hand, I cross to the un-shuttered window. For a moment, I have this insane idea that I might hurl it into Locksley pond. Fool, as Marian would say if she were here. I would be lucky to reach the middle of the pond with a well-aimed arrow, let alone hurl a wooden box that far.

Much is calling me, and through the open window, I can see that the men-at-arms have reached the outskirts of the village.

Quickly, I shove the wooden box and its telltale contents back under the bed and charge towards the doorway.

Despite the need for haste, I turn for one final look at the bedchamber, at the bed and its rumpled sheets and, with heavy heart, whisper a silent goodbye to the man I fell in love with.

**to be continued...**


	23. I'm Robin Hood, Remember?

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

**Wishing all my friends and readers a very Merry Christmas.**

* * *

_**Previously...**_

_Much is calling me, and through the open window, I can see that the men-at-arms have reached the outskirts of the village. _

_Quickly, I shove the wooden box and its telltale contents back under the bed and charge towards the doorway. _

_Despite the need for haste, I turn for one final look at the bedchamber, at the bed and its rumpled sheets and, with heavy heart, whisper a silent goodbye to the man I fell in love with._

* * *

**I'm Robin Hood, Remember?**

"How many?" I shout, leaping from the fourth stair up and instantly regretting it.

"About a dozen, maybe more," Guy replies from his crouched position underneath the front window. "We can take them."

"No," I tell him, "it's too risky."

"I'm with Robin," Much says, toeing the dropped satchel of food. "These are not the old sheriff's lot. These are Prince John's men."

"Much is right," I say, catching my friend's eye, hoping he can find it in his heart to forgive the harsh words I hurled at him earlier. "They will be well-armed and heavily mailed. I can probably hit a few necks or faces as they get closer, take out their horses if necessary, but that will only lessen their number and the ones that are left will be decent swordsmen, I am sure. That means hand-to-hand combat."

"You're good, all of you." I regard each man in turn. "But I can't risk any of us getting captured or killed, especially as this is likely nothing more than an act of vengeance, if what Allan says about Murdac is true. The King must be our priority now."

Pushing my bow onto my shoulder, I crouch next to Guy and cautiously poke my head above the window ledge.

He is right. There are only a dozen or so men-at-arms; it seems that despite his wish to have me dealt with, Murdac is not about to release any more men from the castle than is necessary.

I slide Guy's dagger from my knife-belt and hand it to him.

"Thank you," he says, wrapping a gloveless hand around mine as I pass him the knife, although I'm not sure if he's thanking me for retrieving his weapon, or for the time we've had together, in this house. Our eyes meet, and I almost lose my resolve to make a run for it as a horrifying image of Guy and me charging out of the manor house, instantly slashed to ribbons by the castle-weary men-at-arms, our troubles over, pushes away all thoughts of escape.

"What's happening?" Allan asks.

Inwardly cursing my inability to think straight, I jerk my hand from Guy's and steal another quick look through the open window.

"They're splitting up."

"Is that good?" Much asks, his eyes flicking between the satchel of food on the floor and the sword in his hand.

"Maybe not so good," I tell him. "Although it does mean that they will be thinly spread which will give us a better chance of getting through their line."

Keeping low, I swing around to face the gang. "We're going to make a run for it, do what I said earlier. Go out the back of the house, use the stables for cover, head for the forest."

Everyone nods in agreement.

"Just like old times, eh, Robin?" Allan grins, reaching over his shoulder to make sure the two blades he has strapped to his back are secure.

"Running," Much grumbles, sheathing his sword and giving the satchel an angry kick. "I hate running."

"Ready?" I ask.

"Aye," John says, clutching his staff, his face grim. "We're ready."

"Let's go then."

With a final glance at the men-at-arms, and Guy at my side, I follow the gang through what used to be the servants' quarters, heading for the rear of the house.

Just beyond Thornton's old room is a small, shuttered window. John smacks it open and, one by one, the gang climb onto the narrow ledge and drop onto the hard-packed earth below. Not far away lie our stables, and beyond them a tangle of trees, difficult for mounted men to negotiate.

"No door?" Guy queries.

"Locked," I quickly explain.

"And there's me thinking this is just your way of keeping in practice."

Despite the witticism, I can hear the anxiety in his voice; Guy is not used to being on the receiving end of a chase. He pulls himself up onto the window ledge, jumps awkwardly.

Throwing my precious bow into Guy's waiting hands, I land beside him, wincing as my knife-belt digs into my stitches. Running is going to be painful.

"Are you all right?" Guy asks, touching my arm.

"Fine," I reply, straightening up. "I just—"

"What?" he asks. "What is it?"

I glance at the fleeing backs of John and Allan, and at Much who is hopping up and down, desperate to follow in their wake, but refusing to go without me.

"I can't come with you, not yet. I need to do something first. I'll catch you up."

"No," Much cries, crashing into Guy in his haste to talk some sense into me. "We have to stick together. You can't have one rule for us and another for yourself just because you're our leader."

Realising we are not hot on their heels, John and Allan skid to a stop. Frantically, I wave them on and, after a moment's hesitation, they sprint the final few paces towards cover and, I hope, freedom.

"Much, listen." I grip both his shoulders. His light blue eyes sparkle, brimming with disbelief and fear. "I need you to do something for me. I need you to go to Dead Man's Crossing and wait there until nightfall. If the Black Knights decide to make trouble in Locksley, someone will come and tell you, and then you can come and fetch me from the camp. I know I said I didn't want to take any risks today, but I won't have my people suffering because of me."

"But, Robin, what you said earlier. You can't possibly outfight them."

"I'm not going to outfight them. Please, Much. I don't have time to argue with you. Will you do as I'm asking?"

He nods, knows there is nothing he can do or say when my mind is made up.

"I'm coming with you," Guy says, handing me my bow.

"No," I tell him. I'll be quicker on my own. Trust me."

"But—"

I place my ringed hand on his shoulder, smile reassuringly, "I'm Robin Hood – remember?"

"As if I could ever forget," he says gruffly, failing to disguise the note of pride in his voice.

I glance at Much. He sighs, pointedly turns away.

"Be careful," Guy whispers, lightly brushing my lips with his own.

"You too," I whisper back.

"Go," I tell Much, giving him a shove.

Much whirls around. "Robin. I'm...I'm..." His poor little face starts to crumple at the thought that this might be the last time we see each other if I fail to escape the advancing Black Knights.

"I know," I say, squeezing his shoulder, resisting the urge to embrace him. "So am I. Now go."

"Come on," Guy says, seizing Much's sword arm. "Let Robin do what he has to do."

With a look of guilty relief, Guy drags a reluctant Much towards the stables.

The moment they are out of sight, I dash to the corner of the house and poke my head around. The men-at-arms are close to completing their encirclement of the village, cutting off any chance I had of using the stables and nearby trees as an escape route. I will deal with that when the time comes. Presently, I need to find a dark-haired lad with long legs and a willingness to help me.

Scrabbling through the window we've just dropped out of, I sprint towards the servants' quarters, a plan forming.

Snatching an old, woollen cloak from a peg, and scooping up a couple of wooden pails that Guy and I use to wash our undergarments in, I charge back to the window. Tossing the pails out the window, cloak firmly wedged under my arm, I jump, again cursing my injury as I thump onto the hard earth.

Now for the tricky and, potentially, flawed part of my hastily thought up plan.

Flinging the cloak over my shoulders, covering my bow and quiver, a pail in each hand, I skirt along the back wall of the house, round the corner and, with measured steps, make my way towards the one village well. It is risky, the urge to run overwhelming, but walk I must if I am to fool the Black Knights into thinking I am nothing more than a peasant on his way to collect water. Of all my plans, this is probably the most idiotic and yet, surprisingly, I reach the well without raising the alarm. A few paces away is a cluster of tiny, thatched cottages – my destination.

In an effort to reinforce the deception, I hastily fill one of the wooden pails and, stumbling and slopping water in my haste, head for the nearest cottage where on a chill and windy day at the tail end of autumn, I had climbed onto the roof in order to rescue a tearful child.

"Joseph?" I hiss at one of the cottage's un-shuttered windows.

"Robin Hood?"

I whirl around, dropping the pail with a watery crash and struggling underneath the heavy cloak to unsheathe my sword.

"Roger," I gasp, relief flooding through me.

"What is—"

Quickly covering his mouth with my hand, I push him behind the cottage, out of sight of the ever-nearing men-at-arms.

"What is happening?" he whispers, frightened eyes on my silencing finger. "Are we in trouble?"

"Not we, me. You see those men?"

"The ones on horses?"

"Yes. They are Prince John's men and they want to capture me."

"Because you are Robin Hood?"

"Yes. No. There is no time for explanations. I have to go. But I want you to do something for me. It may be dangerous."

Roger grins, his fear overshadowed by a sudden boyish excitement.

"I am heading for the forest, but if these men cause trouble in Locksley, if they threaten or hurt any of the villagers, I need to know. I need you to come and find me. Can you do that?"

"You are running?" Roger asks, incredulous.

"Roger, there is a time to fight and a time to run, and today I am running. Will you do as I'm asking?"

"Yes, but I don't know where your camp is. Nobody does."

"My ser...my friend, Much. He will be waiting at Dead Man's Crossing. He wears a funny hat."

"I saw him, at the window of the big house."

"If anything happens and the villagers need me, you must run and tell Much, and then Much will come and tell me. You must run like the wind and not stop for anything or anyone. Can you do that?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Good. Here." Sliding the cloak from my shoulders, I unsling my tag from around my neck and loop it over Roger's tousle-haired head. "You are now an honorary member of my gang."

Grinning, Roger fingers the wooden tag. He turns it over. "These are letters?" he says, tracing his fingernails along the impromptu carving Will had made during one of the few times I'd not been wearing my distinguishing outlaw badge.

"Yes," I tell him.

"What do they say?"

"This is an R for Robin and this is an M for...Marian."

"Who is Marian?"

"She is...was...my wife."

"Does she not live in—"

"She is dead," I tell him, more harshly than I intend.

"Oh, I didn't know, I—"

"Roger, I have to go."

"But what will happen if you are caught?"

"I will not get caught. Now, go quickly, and be watchful." I give him what I hope is a reassuring wink and a smile and slip between the cottages.

At the sound of hushed voices, I press my back into the shadowy overhang of the nearest cottage and listen. Two men-at-arms are close by; I can hear the telltale jingle of horses' bits, the creak and scrape of leather and mail. If I make a run for it now they will surely spot me, and I cannot outrun their powerful mounts.

Reminding myself that arrows will not bounce off me, as Marian once put it, I smack my head into the misshapen wall at my back, willing a plan to come to me. It does. In front of me is a thick-limbed tree, the one Joseph used to climb onto the roof of his home to escape the spiteful taunts of the other village children.

Pushing my bow high onto my shoulder, I hurriedly climb the tree. Mindful of my injury, I ease my way along one of the thicker branches and, judging the distance perfectly, leap onto the cottage's roof. Grabbing handfuls of thatch, I wriggle towards the snub, clay chimney and, once behind it, lie prone.

I hear the rap of a gauntleted hand on wood, and one of the men-at-arms demands the cottage's occupants open the door, making threats about what will happen to anyone caught harbouring the outlaw, Robin Hood. His companion shouts a couple of quick questions directed at the other Black Knights, and it quickly becomes clear that the manor house has already been broken into and declared empty.

"You'll find no outlaw in here, but come in if you must," I hear Joseph's mother tell the men.

The knights beg her pardon, and then their voices become muffled as they step into the cottage.

One of the knight's horses nickers, and another plan, more idiotic than trying to hide on a roof in plain daylight, slams into my brain.

Scrambling over the roof's ridge, my eye on one of the fine warhorses waiting patiently below, I start to ease my way down the slippery thatch. It is a calculated risk; the horse may take fright on my crashing abruptly into the empty saddle – that's if I end up in the saddle at all – or the men-at-arms may finish conducting their search of the tiny cottage and catch me in the act.

_I'm Robin Hood – remember?_

I jump, successfully smacking into the saddle of the nearest horse. The animal whinnies, stamps the ground in protest at my heavy and unexpected landing. Grabbing the reins to shouts of "there he is, get him", I kick my heels into the horse's flanks.

Moments later, I am galloping away from the village and pounding up the grassy slope towards open countryside and the forest beyond.

As the obedient warhorse labours up the hill, I chance a quick look behind me. The Black Knights are in pursuit, including the knight whose horse I have stolen, doubled up on his companion's horse. I smile and urge my mount onwards; at least if they are all chasing me there will not be anyone left behind to harm my people.

Successfully reaching the top of the hill, I spur my horse in the direction of Sherwood Forest, my woodland sanctuary.

* * *

For all their fine horses and heavy weaponry, the Black Knights are no match for an outlaw not weighed down by a coat of mail and who knows the forest like the back of his hand.

Grinning, satisfied I have lost my pursuers, I allow the sweat-soaked horse and myself a moment's rest.

Looking around me, I realise I am not far from the 'kissing tree', under which Marian and I used to meet in our younger and more carefree days. Not so many months ago, I buried her ring at its roots, along with my heart. I should have left my heart there.

Cursing that I didn't pick up Guy's gloves after all, I rub my frozen hands together, trying to coax the blood back into my stiff fingers. As I do so, I recall a snowy day not so long ago, a day when I had insisted Guy take a ride with me in the forest. We were close to where I am now, and Guy had been trying to wheedle out of me why I had chosen to lie with him. I'd said something stupid about wanting to be warm, about wanting to hear him breathing beside me, wanting to wake up next to someone, and Guy had said that I could have all that with a pet dog. And then we'd kissed – long and hard. And as we'd kissed, oblivious to everything save for the taste of each other, two of Prince's John's elite guard had stumbled across us.

_Christ, Guy, if we'd been any closer you'd have been in my bloody saddle. I think they noticed. _

I have been a fool. The rumours that Guy and I are having a less than savoury relationship are not the fault of Elisabeth, the lavender girl, nor any other of Locksley's villagers. Nor has Matilda loosed her tongue. No. These rumours began following that day in the forest, and that is why Allan heard those knights in the Trip Inn insinuating that Guy and I are bedding one another.

Not that it matters now. Soon I am to be married and my time with Guy will be but a painful memory.

At the sobering thought, I thwack my boots into my horse's flanks and the animal whinnies in protest. Immediately, I stroke its neck in apology; I should not take out my hurt and frustration on such a fine beast.

Keeping an ear out for the Black Knights – although I have a feeling that even now they are making their way back to the castle to report their failure to Murdac – I guide my horse along the track that will eventually take me, not to the camp as I had originally intended, but towards the Great North Road.

* * *

I arrive in Clun a little after midday. The sky is still eye-blindingly bright, but a chill wind is blowing and there are few villagers about.

I guide my horse to the centre of the village, marked not by a pond as in Locksley, but by the village well and a set of stocks.

Dismounting and stretching my aching limbs after my bitterly cold ride, I study Clun's various dwellings and realise I have absolutely no idea where to find Rowena.

"Robin Hood, isn't it?"

I whirl around, unsheathing my sword as I do so.

"Whoa!" the man says, raising his arms in front of his grey-bearded face.

It is Tanner, the grizzled, old man who looked after me – if you can call trying to rob me of both my coin and Marin's ring such a thing – shortly before I decided that kissing Guy of Gisborne was the thing I wanted to do most in the world.

"Tanner?" I say, surprised.

"Aye," he says, looking me up and down. "I see you come the proper way this time, not falling out the sky."

"I fell from a horse, not the sky," I remind him. "What are you doing here, in Clun?"

"Moved here, didn't I?" Tanner says. "And don't you be asking me any more questions. Questions will only get you into trouble." He taps the side of his nose as though I'm supposed to know what he means.

I notice Tanner has his watery, brown eyes fixed on something beyond my shoulder. I swivel round, expecting to see the men-at-arms, regretting having kept the horse despite its usefulness. Apart from a lone woman throwing slops out the front door of her cottage, the place is deserted.

"Expecting someone?" Tanner asks.

"No."

"Thought maybe you was looking for that leather wearing so-and-so. He's not with you then?"

"No. He's not with me."

"Good. Nasty piece of work that one. What you here for then?"

"I'm looking for someone. A young girl. Her name's Rowena. Do you know where she lives?"

"Aye. Over yonder."

"Thank you," I say, gathering up my horse's reins and leading it in the direction of Tanner's pointing finger.

"Oi," Tanner says, tapping me on the shoulder.

"Yes?"

He holds out a grubby hand. "If you're still robbing them rich folks and feeding the poor then..."

Wishing him quickly gone, I untie my purse and drop a couple of coins into his outstretched hand. The hand remains where it is and I add a couple more.

"I know where you can get a nice drop of mead," Tanner says, wrapping his bony fingers around the shiny coins and giving me a gap-toothed grin.

The thought of drinking myself into oblivion, of avoiding having to face the young woman I promised to marry, is tempting. But that will not make either her or the child she is carrying go away.

Turning my back on Tanner and squaring my shoulders, I head for the tiny cottage where Rowena is living.

Tethering my horse, I stare at my ring, and it occurs to me that I should give one to Rowena to prove my intention to marry her. All in good time. First, I must speak to her, tell her that our marriage will have to wait until I have helped King Richard take back Nottingham Castle.

I make to knock on the front door, pause.

Shall I turn tail, head for the forest, safe in the knowledge that Rowena has a roof over her head and people to care for her? Shall I return to the man I seem unable to live without, turn my back on all that is decent and proper so that I might have something that I want for once?

_I'm Robin Hood – remember? _

I knock on the door and wait.

**to be continued...**


	24. Rowena

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

**Previously...**

"I know where you can get a nice drop of mead," Tanner says, wrapping his bony fingers around the shiny coins and giving me a gap-toothed grin.

The thought of drinking myself into oblivion, of avoiding having to face the young woman I promised to marry, is tempting. But that will not make either her or the child she is carrying go away.

Turning my back on Tanner and squaring my shoulders, I head for the tiny cottage where Rowena is living.

Tethering my horse, I stare at my ring, and it occurs to me that I should give one to Rowena to prove my intention to marry her. All in good time. First, I must speak to her, tell her that our marriage will have to wait until I have helped King Richard take back Nottingham Castle.

I make to knock on the front door, pause.

Shall I turn tail, head for the forest, safe in the knowledge that Rowena has a roof over her head and people to care for her? Shall I return to the man I seem unable to live without, turn my back on all that is decent and proper so that I might have something that I want for once?

_I'm Robin Hood – remember? _

I knock on the door and wait.

* * *

**Rowena**

I hear a man's voice and then footsteps, and there is no time for me to change my mind and go tearing back to the forest.

The door opens a crack.

"Yes?" Two grey eyes peer through the gap between door and frame.

"I'm sorry to intrude," I say. "My name is—"

"Robin!" Rowena exclaims.

The wooden door swings back, and a huge man, with closely cropped fair hair and a similarly styled beard, immediately fills the space.

Looking me up and down, the man says, "About time you showed up."

"You must be Thomas," I say, giving him a tentative smile.

"And you're the great Robin Hood that the young lass here has spent the past three months mooning over."

"Thomas, please," Rowena says.

"Still, better late than never." Thomas steps away from the door and waves me inside. "There's many a man would leave a young girl in such a plight without a second thought. At least you've got the decency to show up. Though I'd expect nothing less from you, if everything everyone says about you is to be believed."

I glance behind me. Tanner, happy that he has his drinking money, is nowhere in sight.

"Someone after you, are they?" Thomas asks, hurriedly blocking my path.

"No," I tell him.

My stolen horse nickers, and I guiltily realise it must be ages since it was last fed and watered.

Thomas peers over my shoulder and, satisfied that I am telling the truth, moves out of my way.

Rowena, dwarfed by a plain, tan-coloured dress that I guess once belonged to the woman of the house, is standing in front of a blazing fire. She is clutching what looks like a piece of knitting, and I wonder if she is making a shawl to replace the soiled one she left at the King's camp.

Above the fire hangs a large and blackened cooking pot. Judging by the smell, it looks as though I have interrupted the midday meal. A rush of saliva fills my mouth. I hardly ate a thing at breakfast, preoccupied as I was by Guy's hand resting on my thigh and my mis-booted feet.

"Unburden yourself of your weapons and come on in," Thomas says. "I'll not bite."

I slip my bow from my shoulder, unbuckle my quiver, and lean them both by the front door.

"Unless you're planning on standing the whole time, I suggest you take that sword of yours off and all," Thomas says.

Smiling at his gruff way of telling me I am welcome into his house, I unsheathe my scimitar and lay it on the hard-packed earthen floor, alongside my bow and arrows.

Rowena lays the piece of knitting on the arm of a fireside chair and quietly waits, hands clasped together, seemingly unsure whether to come forward and embrace me, or to wait for me to do likewise.

"How are you?" I ask, glancing at the burly Thomas, annoyed that he is all but standing in between Rowena and I, making what is likely to be a difficult conversation even more difficult.

"Much better than I was when you last saw me," Rowena replies, stumbling over her words a little. "Yesterday, in the forest," she elaborates, laying emphasis on the word forest.

I realise she is doing exactly what I asked both her and my men to do: not to let anyone know that King Richard is on these shores, lest Murdac and his Black Knights find out before Richard's army has arrived and the King is ready to confront his brother's supporters.

"Good," I say. "That's good."

Rowena smiles, happy she has pleased me in this regard.

"I told her," Thomas says, wagging a finger at Rowena. "I told her not to go charging off into that cold and horrible forest when she's feeling so poorly. But would she listen? No. Still, at least she found you to give you the news. Twas only last week she told us who the father was, and then only because I threatened to...well, it don't matter what I said because you're here now."

"Thomas, please," Rowena implores, laying a pacifying hand on his thickly muscled arm. "It is not Robin's fault that he didn't know about the baby until yesterday."

"Tis shameful all the same, child. Because I don't care who you are," Thomas says, addressing me now. "What you did ain't right. Allowing a young and innocent girl to believe you was the man for her, leading her astray, and then leaving her hanging high and dry for no reason at all, other than the fact you'd satisfied your lustful needs and was on your way. I'd heard you was a ladies' man, Robin Hood. Bound to slip us sooner or later, weren't you?"

I stand meekly. Thomas is too close to the truth for me to do otherwise.

However, the fact that he called Rowena innocent tells me she has told Thomas little of her former life, of surviving on her wits and her all-too-obvious charms. Certainly, she was not backward in coming forward as far as sharing her body with me was concerned.

"Still, what's done is done," Thomas says. "Ain't no use crying about it.

In two strides, he reaches the fireplace. Leaning over the cooking pot, he inhales deeply, sighs, and turns back to me.

"At least the girl will be marrying someone with lands and monies. Not that that'll help me out with me poor sick wife. Been a godsend this girl has, especially as we've not been blessed with our own children to help us."

Thomas regards me, expectantly.

"I'm sorry," I say, unhooking my coin purse from my knife-belt. I dig inside the small leather pouch.

Thomas offers me a meaty, and none-too-clean, palm and resolutely waits, hand out-stretched, until my purse is empty.

"This'll help," Thomas says, dropping the coins into a little clay pot sitting by the fireplace, "but it won't last forever."

"There'll be more," I tell him. "When I am able."

Thomas nods, satisfied I will keep my word.

"Are you hungry?" Rowena asks, clearly wishing to be done with the unpleasant business of us deciding her worth.

The smell of whatever is bubbling away in the cooking pot reminds me of the house in France – the one I 'fell' into as I was trying to escape the fat, florid Dumont following the archery contest. It reminds me of the beautiful girl, feeding her newborn. In faltering French, I had explained my situation to the girl and she in turn had handed me a cloth to wipe my bloody forehead, while her baby suckled on her creamy, milk-swollen breast. And, as she tended to me, so I had imagined myself living that kind of life. Me, a simple peasant, earning an honest living in some craft or other, while my beautiful wife looks after our home and our children.

The image had faded as quickly as it had come.

I recall stumbling out of the house, pressing my back against the cold, damp wall in the shadowy alleyway, and moments later finding Guy crouching down in front of me, his hand on my shoulder and his eyes boring into mine, understanding my want even before I understood it myself.

I nod in answer to Rowena's question, and she indicates, not the table, but the fireside chair next to hers.

Gratefully, I sit.

Thomas coughs for attention, and Rowena ladles him a bowl of thick vegetable soup. His huge hands enveloping the soup-filled bowl, Thomas carries his meal to the wooden table that occupies a goodly part of the room.

Inclining her head at a narrow door just beyond the fireplace, Rowena asks, "What about?"

"She's sleeping," Thomas says through a mouthful of soup. "Best not be disturbing her."

I guess he is referring to his ailing wife.

Thomas has hardly sat down when his bowl is empty, and he asks Rowena to fetch him some more.

Quietly fuming, Rowena refills his bowl and thumps it down in front of him. Shaking her head at me in apology, and throwing daggered looks in Thomas's direction, she hands me some soup and then sorts out her own meal.

With the steaming bowls balanced precariously on our knees, we eat, speaking of inconsequential things, like the weather and Rowena's recently acquired skill of knitting, knowing that while Thomas sits within earshot we cannot talk freely.

The soup is good and warming and, coupled with the fire, I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep my eyes open.

Rowena touches my arm, asks, "Are you all right?"

"Yes," I say, straightening up. "I'm just tired. It's been a busy day."

I have decided not to mention this morning's escapades. It would only distress her, and Rowena needs to conserve her strength for childbearing, rather than be worrying that her future husband might injure or kill himself by jumping off roofs.

"I thought perhaps it was troubling you?"

I flick my eyes at Thomas, who is clearly listening to our conversation.

"Your injury, I mean," Rowena says, quickly realising my misinterpretation of her words.

"Oh, no, it's fine. Nessa's handiwork has done the trick."

"Even so," Rowena says. "You should take care. Wounds can become infected if you're not careful, and you wouldn't want to jeopardise the—"

"No," I interrupt, aware of Thomas tipping his chair back, intent on hearing our every word. "I wouldn't want to leave my people with no means of meeting the demands of Prince John's latest tax collector."

Rowena mouths a silent "sorry", aware she had come close to mentioning King Richard's plans to retake Nottingham Castle.

"What injury is this then?" Thomas asks, swivelling around, no longer attempting to hide his curiosity.

"A deep cut," I tell him. "Nothing that will prevent me taking care of this little lady."

I smile at Rowena and she smiles back. With her longer hair and paler skin, she is much prettier than when I first saw her, wearing men's clothing, pointing an arrow at my chest and demanding I lay down my weapon. Indeed, if her eyes were blue instead of brown she would almost...

I push the thought away. For all her skills with bow and sword, Rowena is not Marian. Nor is she Guy, the man who lies with me, night after night, and who I cannot imagine living without, but must.

A rasping cough from behind the narrow door startles Thomas and he almost falls off his chair. He scowls at the door and turns to Rowena.

"I have a guest," she snaps.

With an exaggerated sigh, Thomas heaves himself to his feet. "You mind your manners, young man," he says to me, while nodding at Rowena. "Just because the girl is your intended, it don't mean you can go taking liberties. Not that you haven't done that already, mind you."

For a heartbeat, an image of my father, slapping his thick leather belt across his open palm in readiness to beat me, dances before my eyes.

Thomas opens the narrow door and disappears into the room beyond, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Picking up my empty bowl, Rowena places it on the hearth, next to her barely touched one. She drags her chair nearer to mine, so that her skirts are brushing against my legs.

We stare at the fire, both clearly ill at ease.

"I didn't think you would come this quickly," Rowena says, breaking the awkward silence. "Surely you cannot have made arrangements already?"

"No. I haven't."

"Oh, I see." She turns towards me and touches my fire-warmed hand – the ringed one.

"You haven't told him, have you?" she says, pressing down on my hand as though to bury the offending ring into my thighbone.

"I can't. I—"

"Can't or won't?" she interrupts, batting my hand from my leg, her mouth pinched in barely suppressed anger.

"I can explain."

"Explain then," she says, crossing her arms across her thin little chest.

Immediately, I launch into my reasons for not telling Guy about Rowena, the baby and our proposed marriage, the words tumbling out easily. It makes me realise how many times I must have rehearsed this little speech in my head, convincing myself, if no-one else, that it makes sense.

"I am sorry," I add.

"And when exactly will you tell him?" Rowena asks, her voice rising. "When I am as big as a house? On our wedding night?"

"I will tell him when the time is right. He saved my life. He is the reason I made it back to England. He suffers every day for what he did in the Holy Land and wants nothing more than to prove to the people of Nottingham, and to me, that he can be a better man. He wants to atone for his crimes. How can I deny him that?"

"I understand what you are saying," she says, "but that is no reason not to—"

"It was only yesterday that I found out about the child. If you had told me sooner then—"

"Would it have changed anything?"

"It might."

A million to one, she had said.

"You told me it would be all right," I say, swallowing my mounting anger. "You said there was no chance that you could...that I could..."

"What?" she snaps.

"You lied to me. You must have known the risk we were taking, yet you let me carry on regardless."

"You didn't seem that bothered by it at the time," she retorts.

"What?"

"You made it quite clear that you wanted me. Of course, I know now that it wasn't me you wanted at all."

"I trusted you," I say.

"And I trusted you. I trusted you to be the Robin Hood everyone talked about."

"That man died in the Holy Land, along with Marian."

"Yes, and we both know who killed her, don't we? How can you, Robin? How can you bear to be in the same house as him, let alone—"

"This has nothing to do with Guy. This is about you and me."

"No. This has everything to do with him. I should have waited. I should have realised it was too soon. I just wanted to believe that we could...that you and I could..."

She looks down into her lap, clasps and unclasps her ringless left hand with her right one.

"I know," I say. "So did I."

We stare at the fire, lapsing into another painful and protracted silence.

"You were right, though," Rowena says at length.

"About what?"

"About me telling you sooner. But as I explained to you back in the camp, at first I wasn't sure. I thought I was ill or something. And when I did realise, I wasn't sure that I wanted you, knowing what I did about you; that you...you know...with men. I wasn't—"

"Not men," I tell her. "Just one man."

"That doesn't make it any better, Robin."

"I know."

Rowena picks up her knitting, but after making a couple of stitches she lets it fall into her lap. "I am sorry for being angry with you. Much told me of Guy's terrible temper. You may be right about him turning against us and revealing the King's whereabouts to Prince John's men. And if he does that, then not only Nottingham but all of England will be in danger."

Rowena is no fool. She knows that if Nottingham remains in the hands of Murdac and his men-at-arms, I am likely to end up with my neck in a noose, and if I die she will have no husband and no home of her own.

"It will not come to that, I am sure. But thank you. Thank you for understanding."

"Oh, I understand all right," Rowena says, jumping up and sending the ball of yarn rolling across the floor.

"What?" I ask, surprised by her renewed vehemence.

She turns and looks down at me, her dark brown eyes sparking with fury.

"Three months, Robin. Three months I've been here waiting for you to come and find me."

"You know why I kept away."

"Much said..."

"Much said what?" I ask, coming to my feet.

Either too hot by the fire, or wishing to be further away from me, Rowena crosses to the small cottage window and stands looking out at the village, her arms wrapped around herself in an effort to keep out the chill.

"He said you'd be back within the week, that you'd come to your senses. But you didn't, did you? You still haven't."

"You knew how things were. I thought I'd made it plain that—"

Rowena swings around. "Oh, you made it plain all right. Shamelessly kissing him in front of us and so soon after leaving my bed."

"I thought it was my bed."

"Don't try to be funny, Robin. This is far from funny." She runs her hands over her non-existent bump.

"I'm sorry. But I thought you were all right with it."

"Yes, I put on quite a show, didn't I?" She tucks her shoulder length hair behind her ears – ears that noticeably stuck out when she wore her hair cropped like a boy's. "I'm good at that sort of thing. I've learned over the years how to hide my feelings from men who have let me down."

"Rowena, I—"

"No," she says, holding up a warning hand. "Hear me out."

She glances at the narrow door, but it remains firmly shut. I am in no doubt that Thomas can hear every word we are saying.

"That night, in Locksley, after you fell asleep, you were tossing and turning. Poor Robin, I thought. Having nightmares. I stroked your hair and tried to quieten you. And then you said a name – his name – and more than once. And it wasn't out of fear or loathing, but desire and need. I heard my father call out in his sleep enough times to know the difference. You wanted him. I knew that even before we stumbled upon him in the camp."

"I'm sorry."

"Last night." Rowena takes a step towards me.

"Last night?" I repeat, my heart speeding up.

"You sent me back here, with Allan, so you could go back to Locksley and talk to Guy. So you could tell him about us. Or so you led me to believe. But you didn't, did you? And it wasn't just because of what you said earlier, about keeping the King safe. There was another reason why you didn't tell him. The sordid reason. The one that's written all over your face. The one that makes you still wear his ring."

She takes another step towards me.

"So where was it then?" she demands, her cheeks pinking in fury. "In the bed? In the middle of the bed you once shared with me? Somewhere else? In front of the fire perhaps?"

I look at the earthen floor and think of Locksley with its carefully laid stonework and perfectly joined wooden boards.

"Oh, I see. Well that rug is certainly thick enough to—"

"Enough," I say, raising my hands in surrender. "You've made your point."

"No, Robin. I don't think that I have."

The slap is hard and unexpected, and I stumble backwards, smacking my lower back into one of the sturdy fireside chairs.

The narrow door opens a crack and then closes with a soft click.

Fingering my slapped cheek, I straighten up. "Guess I deserved that."

Rowena raises her hand and, thinking she is about to strike me again, I stand ready. Instead, she takes a faltering step towards me, and I catch her as she all but falls into my chest.

"I'm sorry," she says, burying her face into my shirt, her nose pressing into the place where my tag used to lie.

I wrap my arms around her and gently stroke her hair, listening to her quiet crying.

"Shush," I tell her. "It's all right.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," she sobs.

"You are frightened," I say, "and you have every right to be. But I meant what I said yesterday. You are to be my wife, and we will live in Locksley, and—"

"How can we? How can we when Guy still thinks—"

"I will tell him. Tonight."

"But the King?"

"Will be safe. I will see to it. Even if I have to lock up Guy and throw away the key. No harm will come to King Richard, or to you. You have my word."

I cup Rowena's small chin in my hand and brush the pads of my thumb and fingers across her tear-streaked cheeks.

"This child – our child – will be raised as it should be raised, by a mother and a father."

Rowena meets my eyes, nods in understanding.

"You will be a good father," she says.

"And you will be an even better mother and a wonderful wife. Now, dry your eyes," I smile. "All will be well."

The narrow door creaks open, and this time Thomas steps into the room.

"Fight over?" he asks.

"Yes," Rowena says, disentangling herself from my arms. "Everything is fine. We had a misunderstanding, that is all."

Thomas looks me up and down, his shrewd grey eyes resting longer than necessary on my belt buckle.

"If you've some more of those coins," he says, slapping a big hand to his crotch, "I could see my way clear to not saying anything about that _misunderstanding_."

It is only his sickly wife, and the fact Rowena must stay here until I have resolved matters with Guy, that makes me hold my tongue and keep my hands folded in front of me.

"And the King?" I ask.

"King. What king would that be?" Thomas says, giving me a knowing look.

"I've no more coin on me," I tell him. "But the horse must be worth something?"

"Aye," Thomas says. "It'll do. For now."

I turn to Rowena. "As soon as I have spoken to...when I have spoken to..."

"I understand," she says.

Thomas strides to the front door, picks up my bow and quiver and my sword, strides back and thrusts them into my hands.

"For all our sakes, I'll not breathe a word of what's gone on here today. But if you don't do what's right by the lass, then you'll find you have more than me to answer to."

I nod in understanding and, my weapons secured, walk to the front door, Rowena following closely behind.

Thomas's wife calls feebly from her sick bed, and he shouts back that he is coming.

As I open the front door, Thomas says, "Don't you be thinking of taking that horse when my back's turned, outlaw."

Without waiting for my reply, Thomas disappears behind the narrow door.

"Will you be all right?" Rowena asks, eyeing my sword.

"I will be fine."

"But what if—"

"I will be fine," I say, firmly. "Now, I should go. It will be dark soon, and I have a long walk ahead of me."

"Take the horse," Rowena says. "I can handle Thomas."

"No. I made a deal and I intend to stick to it."

Rowena meets my eyes, knows I mean more than the horse.

"Take care, Robin."

"You too."

I lean forwards, intending to kiss her cheek. Instead, I find her hands clutching my upper arms and her small lips pressed to my lips.

Despite the urge to pull away, I surrender to her kiss, willing myself to remember what it used to be like – that sweet little mouth, those soft curves, those silky limbs. But all I can think of is rough stubble, a firm jaw, the slide of a thick, wet tongue and his muscled, hairy legs wrapped around my legs.

Emboldened, Rowena parts her lips, inviting me to deepen the kiss.

Easing her away from me, and giving what I hope is a reassuring smile, I tell her, "I have to go."

"When will you be back?"

"Soon. I promise."

Shouldering my bow, I step outside, and, head down against the fierce March wind, begin my long and lonely walk back to Sherwood Forest.

**to be continued...**


	25. Nothing But the Truth

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta. And to **Jammeke **for the lovely banner.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

_As I open the front door, Thomas says, "Don't you be thinking of taking that horse when my back's turned, outlaw."_

_Without waiting for my reply, Thomas disappears behind the narrow door._

_"Will you be all right?" Rowena asks, eyeing my sword._

_"I will be fine."_

_"But what if—"_

_"I will be fine," I say, firmly. "Now, I should go. It will be dark soon, and I have a long walk ahead of me."_

_"Take the horse," Rowena says. "I can handle Thomas."_

_"No. I made a deal and I intend to stick to it."_

_Rowena meets my eyes, knows I mean more than the horse._

_"Take care, Robin."_

_"You too."_

_I lean forwards, intending to kiss her cheek. Instead, I find her hands clutching my upper arms and her small lips pressed to my lips._

_Despite the urge to pull away, I surrender to her kiss, willing myself to remember what it used to be like – that sweet little mouth, those soft curves, those silky limbs. But all I can think of is rough stubble, a firm jaw, the slide of a thick, wet tongue and his muscled, hairy legs wrapped around my legs._

_Emboldened, Rowena parts her lips, inviting me to deepen the kiss._

_Easing her away from me, and giving what I hope is a reassuring smile, I tell her, "I have to go."_

_"When will you be back?"_

_"Soon. I promise."_

_There is nothing more to say. She doesn't say I love you, and I don't say it either._

_Shouldering my bow, I step outside and, head down against the fierce March wind, begin my long and lonely walk back to Sherwood Forest._

* * *

**Nothing But the Truth**

"Blimey! You took your time."

"Nice to see you too, Allan." Wearily, I slip my bow from my shoulder and rest it against a nearby tree stump.

"We thought you'd gone and got yourself captured. Guy's been pacing up and down so much I'm surprised he hasn't dug himself into the ground."

I glance around the camp. John is standing by the water barrel, staff in hand. Much is busying himself by the cooking pit. I cannot see Guy.

"Sorry."

"And so you should be," Much remonstrates, waving a wooden ladle at me and accidentally splashing John in the process. "I don't care if you're our leader. You can't keep telling us to do one thing and then you go off and do another. And another thing," he says, sidling away from a murderous-looking John. "Don't ever send me to Dead Man's Crossing again, especially not on my own. I hate that place. It gives me the creeps."

"You done?" I ask, unable to keep the smile from my lips.

"Er...yes. Supper?"

"Thanks, but I ate."

"When? Where?"

"I went to Clun and—"

"Robin!"

Guy drops the armful of logs he is carrying. Smiling, he breaks into a run, looking for all the world as if he is about to either embrace me, or pick me up and whirl me around, such is his joy at seeing me alive and well. But noticing the gang watching him – Allan's quiet amusement, John's weary acceptance and Much's 'oh-please' face – he skids to a stop, some four or five paces away from where I am standing.

"Are you all right?" he asks, arms hanging loosely at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling the way they do whenever he's agitated or upset.

"Yes, I'm fine. As you see, I managed to escape Murdac's men unscathed."

"So you did." He folds his arms across his chest in an effort to counteract his earlier display of emotion. "How?"

"I stole one of their horses when they weren't looking."

"And where is the horse now?"

"Well, obviously Robin hasn't got it now," Much interrupts. "It'd be marked, and we all know what happens when marked horses—"

"I rode it to Clun," I say, scowling at Much and his ill-timed observation. "And then I gave it away."

"Obviously," Guy remarks.

"Clun," Much exclaims. "We're here fretting that you've been hurt, or worse, and meanwhile you decide you're going to go visit your peasants."

"I was not visiting my peasants," I tell him, glancing at John and Allan in turn.

"Er...not being funny, Robin," Allan says, surreptitiously pointing a finger in Guy's direction, "but do you want us to...you know...scarper? Give you and Guy a bit of privacy?"

"Privacy?" Guy queries.

He doesn't get it. Normally, the gang, and Much in particular, make it patently obvious that Guy and me should not go beyond friendly civility when we are anywhere near them; certainly they would not want us to sully the place they regard as their home with our 'dirty love games', as Much once scathingly called them.

"No," John declares, thumping his staff into the ground. "We stay. All of us."

Guy regards John, puzzled. "Is there something I'm missing here?"

"Guy." I take a step towards him, stop when I notice he's wearing his broadsword. "We need to talk...I need to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Master," Much says, stepping between Guy and me and immediately looking as if he regrets the move. "Do you think that is wise? We've had enough of an upset today as it is. And...well...it's late, and I've made supper, and—"

"I have to tell him."

"Tell me what?" Guy demands, uncrossing his arms.

"Not here." I nod towards the surrounding forest. "Alone."

Ignoring Much's frantic head waggling and Allan's nervous licking of his lips, I start walking towards the trees, expecting Guy to follow.

"No!"

I turn to find John at Guy's back, one great arm around his chest and the other struggling to pull Guy's sword from its sheath.

"Get the bloody hell off me," Guy demands, twisting and turning in an effort to free himself.

"John," I warn. "Let him go."

"No. Not until he gives me the sword."

"And what exactly," Guy growls, "do you think I'm about to do with it?"

"I won't have you hurting Robin," John explains, still clutching Guy. "We need him. The King needs him."

"Why in heaven's name would I want to hurt Robin?"

Guy glares at Much.

"Don't look at me like that," Much says, pushing out his lower lip. "This has nothing to do with me."

"I never said that it did."

"Well then I suggest—"

"This morning," Guy interrupts, "you ran up the stairs, in Locksley, spouting some nonsense about me hurting Robin."

Guy pretends to relax and, seizing the opportunity, rams an elbow into John's chest. John grunts but doesn't relinquish his hold.

"And now," Guy continues, giving up the struggle, "John is saying the same thing. Will someone," he says, looking directly at me, "please tell me what is going on."

"Let him go, John," I say.

"No. Not until he gives up his sword."

"Guy, give John your sword, then we'll talk."

Guy nods and, cautiously, John lets go.

"So talk," Guy says, handing John his broadsword.

John points at Guy's boot. "And the other one."

"There is no other one, so back off."

"Robin?" John queries.

"Guy isn't wearing any other blades."

Satisfied, John steps away.

"Well?" Guy asks.

"Not here," I tell him. "Not in front of them."

"_Them_," Much says, "just happen to be people who love and care about you."

"If you care about me so much, you'll learn when to get lost."

Much opens his mouth as though to argue with me, quickly clamps it shut with a sad little shake of his head. I feel bad, hate myself for continually snapping at him when all he wants to do is look after me.

"John." I motion my big friend to join me.

John nods and follows me into our sleeping area, out of earshot of the others.

"I don't want you or the others to follow us," I tell him. "No matter what you think may or may not happen between Guy and me."

"This is Gisborne – remember?"

John jabs a finger into my side – the same side that bears the scar of Guy's handiwork in the Holy Land – as if to remind me exactly who I am dealing with. God knows what John would think if he knew about the recently healed gash on my upper thigh.

"No. This is Guy. This is the man who's been with me, bedded me, for the past three months. He's changed."

John sighs, shakes his head. "No, it's you that's changed. Gisborne is a violent man, you and I both know that."

"I just need to talk to him, make him understand."

"And if he doesn't _understand_?"

"It's my business, John, no-one else's. It should always have been my business."

"Aye, it should."

John gives my right arm a quick squeeze, apologises when he realises it's the damaged one, even though I have all but forgotten my ravaged tattoo, that legacy of the pirate's blade that would have ended my life but for Guy pushing me out of its path.

"But I'm still sorry it's come to this," he says.

John turns to leave.

"Thank you," I say. "Thank you for understanding."

"This," John says, keeping his back to me, "I will never understand.

"We won't be long," I tell the gang, my chest tightening painfully as I wonder whether this is the last time I will use the word 'we' when talking about Guy and me.

"But...but—"

"Let them go," John says, tugging at Much's shirtsleeve.

Nodding my thanks at John, I gesture towards the trees.

This time, Guy follows unchallenged. If he hears Allan's muttered, "it's his funeral", he doesn't say so.

* * *

We walk in near silence, the only sound that of the leaves and twigs rustling and snapping underfoot. We walk for a long time. I don't know how Guy is going to react when I tell him about Rowena and the baby, but if this is about to turn into a yelling match or, God help us, end in a brawl, I don't want the gang anywhere near. This is my mess and I'm the one who has to clear it up.

As we enter the clearing we once fought in all that time ago, shortly after I'd discovered Guy's tattoo and accused him of treason, I stop walking.

"Well?" Guy asks. He glances around him as though questioning why I have walked this far into the forest and to this place in particular.

"I don't know where to start."

"How about at the beginning," he suggests, clenching his fists. Guy knows that whatever I am about to tell him it is more than simply discussing sleeping arrangements in the camp.

_The beginning_.

I twist the silver ring around my middle finger a couple of times. My hand is cold and the ring slides off easily.

"I'm sorry."

Walking the few paces that separate us, I offer Guy the token of affection he gave to me shortly before we first kissed.

"I don't understand," he says, making no move to take it.

"I can't wear this anymore."

"Why? Why can't—"

Guy looks up, his eyes widening in sudden understanding. "They've found out, haven't they?"

"What?"

"Your people. They know. They know that you and I have been—"

"No. It isn't that."

"Then why can't you—"

"It's Rowena."

"The girl?"

"She's going to have a child. My child."

"No," Guy says, vehemently shaking his head, refusing to believe my words.

I take hold of his hand, pressing the ring into his palm. "I'm so sorry."

"I don't believe you." Guy seizes my outstretched hand as though he is about to force the ring back onto my finger. "You're making it up. You just want to get out of—"

"I'm not making it up. It's true."

Guy lets go of my hand and stumbles backwards, dropping the ring as he does so.

"How long have you known?" he asks.

I don't answer, am staring at the ground, remembering the time when Marian's engagement ring, the one Guy gave her, lay discarded atop the fallen leaves.

"How long?" Guy barks.

"Since yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"At the King's camp," I explain. "She came to tell me before then, but must have changed her mind. It was only when she was unwell in front of Richard and—"

"You bastard." Guy's hand leaps for his sword. He curses when it clutches at nothing.

"I can explain."

"Oh, I bet you can. I bet you can explain to me how neatly arranged it all was."

Guy takes a step towards me.

"I did not arrange—"

"All those weeks," he interrupts, "when you left me alone in the house while you went off to see your precious gang and to feed and clothe those ignorant, foul-smelling peasants of yours. Found yourself with some time on your hands, did you? Wanted a bit of smooth after the rough? Decided you could have your _fucking_ cake and eat it?"

"No. I didn't—"

"I waited for you, Robin. Every day, I paced that house and I waited for you. I organised food. I lit fires. I held off touching myself, even though I ached for it sometimes. All for you. And all the while you were bedding that little whore."

"Enough!" I yell. "It was not like that. The whole of the time I was with you, I never saw Rowena. Not once."

"Then when—?"

"It was before we found you, in the camp. Rowena was already at Locksley, posing as my sister."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter. What matters is that I met her before I even knew you were back in Nottingham."

"How could you?" he says, his face slack in disbelief. "How could you, so soon after Marian?"

"You don't understand. Rowena wasn't meant to replace Marian. She was meant to..."

"What? Meant to what?"

I had promised Guy there would be no secrets, no lies between us, yet, repeatedly, I had broken that promise.

"She was meant to stop me from wanting you," I continue. "Because it was you that I wanted. Ever since France, maybe even before then. I don't know. I was frightened. I didn't understand what was wrong with me, how I could possibly want to lie with men, and with you of all people. I thought being with a woman would change that, would take that want away. But it didn't."

Guy unclenches his fists, and, for a moment, I think he is about to embrace me, tell me he forgives me.

"You asked her to marry you, didn't you?"

I nod.

"Of course, you would do that. You're the good and honourable Robin Hood."

"Hardly."

Guy's lips twitch, on the edge of a smile, and I let go the breath I feel as if I've been holding since we left the camp.

"I know this isn't what we wanted. But you and me..."

"You and me what?" Guy asks.

"Well, it wasn't going to last forever, was it?"

"I wasn't asking for forever, Robin."

Guy's head drops forward, his long hair obscuring his face. He toes the winter-brown leaves, as though looking for my lost ring.

I turn away, not wanting to have to deal with his hurt, barely coping with my own.

"Never turn your back on a wounded animal," my father once told me, as I stamped my foot and fumed over not making a clean shot on the boar.

Too late, I recall his words.

"What did you think?" Guy snarls, wrenching my right arm behind my back and shoving me forwards until I smack into the nearest tree.

"Guy, my arm, you're hurting me."

"And I'm going to hurt you a whole lot more," he growls, grabbing my flailing left arm and smacking it repeatedly into the tree's trunk. "What did you think? That I was simply going to smile and say, never mind, Robin, these things happen, Robin, you go on right on ahead and marry the girl and we'll just be best friends...oh, and don't forget to send me an invite to your _fucking _wedding, Robin?"

"Guy, please."

I am frightened. If my injured arm and stomach were not hurting me, perhaps I could fight my way free. But they do, and I can't. And Guy's anger makes him powerful and dangerous. He has slipped into that dark place where everything is coloured red and I'm not even sure that mention of Marian can save me this time.

His belt buckle is jabbing into my lower back, his knees pressing into the backs of my knees. There is a stump of branch digging into my middle, the taste of bark under my tongue.

I stop struggling, wait for the punches I am certain Guy is about to deal.

Unexpectedly, he lets go.

Snatching a few grateful breaths and clutching my painful right arm, I turn to face him.

"Yesterday," Guy says, clearly puzzling over something.

"Yesterday, what?"

"Yesterday, you said. In the King's camp."

It is not a question, and I see what I have done.

_One more time. One more time with Guy and then I will tell him._

"We fucked, Robin. We left the King's camp and went back to Locksley and we fucked. And all the time, you knew. So how long then? How long were you going to keep it a secret from me?"

I don't want this. I want us to go back to Locksley, together. I want to forget about Rowena and the gang and King Richard and that damn castle. I want to lie in bed, with Guy, his arms wrapped around me. But wanting something isn't going to get me it, I know that now.

"Do they know?" he asks.

"Who?"

"You know perfectly well who. The gang, your men?"

I watch as a gust of wind whisks up the leaves in front of his boots.

"Oh, I see. You weren't going to tell me because you need me. And not just for fucking either. You need me because I know where that tunnel is and because I know my way around the castle. You want to use me the way you use everyone."

"That isn't true. I care for you."

"_I care for you_," Guy sneers. "Listen to yourself. The only thing you care about is that precious gang of yours and your people. Theirs is the love and admiration you want, not mine. You make me sick."

"Guy, what I did with Rowena was a mistake. I knew that almost the moment it happened. But it doesn't change the fact she is going to have a child, and I can't walk away from that the way you walked away from it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means. You condemned Annie's baby, your son, to almost certain death. If it hadn't been for us—"

"Always about _you_. I told the guards to take it away. I didn't say where. I did not think they would just abandon it in the forest."

"Oh, what? you thought they might just hand him to some passing noble woman who would say, 'Oh my, what a gorgeous child, I simply must take him home and raise him as my own'?"

"I had nothing, Robin. Nothing but the crumbs Vaisey passed my way. No lands, no home."

"You had Locksley."

"Locksley was never mine and you know it."

"Annie was a kitchen maid, Guy. She didn't need lands or titles."

"No, but I did. I needed them."

"And do you still need them? Is that why you're with me, because you think that the King will rescind my outlaw status and I will be free to hand you back your family's lands? Is that what this, you and me, are all about, to settle old scores?"

"You know it isn't. Don't try to twist things, Robin. It makes you sound like Marian."

Guy rakes a hand through his long hair – hair I like to run my fingers through when we are in bed together and his head lies next to mine.

A sudden snapping of twigs startles us and, for the first time since leaving the camp, I curse the fact we are both weaponless.

The deer regards us for a short moment, before darting away.

Guy's relieved smile quickly disappears as, turning back to me, he remembers why we are here in the first place.

"This is all very convenient, isn't it?"

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"What Allan said this morning, about Murdac's men discussing the two of us. All getting a bit too close for comfort for you, is it? But oh, look, here's the perfect way out. Pretty little wife. Child. All nice and respectable."

"You talk as though I planned the whole thing."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"Well, I didn't."

"So, now what?" Guy asks.

"I want you to stay."

Guy laughs, but there is no amusement in it.

"Why? So I can change its smelly wrappings while you and she—"

"You know I didn't mean it like that."

"The answer," Guy says, "is no."

"No?"

"Your cause means nothing to me. I have done what you want me to do because I want you. You're all that matters to me."

"But I thought you wanted to be a better man, to prove that Marian was right about you?"

"Only if it includes being with you. I loved you, Robin."

Loved. Past tense.

"Enough," Guy continues, "that I would give up all thoughts of wealth or power. Enough that I would put up with your do-gooding and all those stupid peasants you champion. And this is how you repay me."

"I'm sorry. I don't have a choice."

"Not good enough."

"Then what do you—"

"You get the girl and I am left with nothing – again."

"I didn't get the girl when you killed Marian. You were the one who left me with nothing."

"It always comes back to Marian, doesn't it?"

He is right. I have never truly forgiven him for what he did. And I should have.

I crouch, as if to look for my ring, giving Guy the chance to do what I did to him long ago, in this very clearing.

The boot to the face never comes.

I raise my head.

"Make no mistake," Guy says, fists held out in front of him. "This ends here, _Hood_."

**to be continued...**


	26. What Hurts the Most

**Disclaimer: original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.**

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_Your cause means nothing to me. I have done what you want me to do because I want you. You're all that matters to me."_

"_But I thought you wanted to be a better man, to prove that Marian was right about you?"_

"_Only if it includes being with you. I loved you, Robin." _

_Loved. Past tense. _

"_Enough," Guy continues, "that I would give up all thoughts of wealth or power. Enough that I would put up with your do-gooding and all those stupid peasants you champion. And this is how you repay me."_

"_I'm sorry. I don't have a choice." _

"_Not good enough." _

"_Then what do you—"_

"_You get the girl and I am left with nothing – again." _

"_I didn't get the girl when you killed Marian. You were the one who left me with nothing." _

"_It always comes back to Marian, doesn't it?" _

_He is right. I have never truly forgiven him for what he did. And I should have. _

_I crouch, as if to look for my ring, giving Guy the chance to do what I did to him long ago, in this very clearing._

_The boot to the face never comes. _

_I raise my head. _

"_Make no mistake," Guy says, fists held out in front of him. "This ends here, Hood."_

* * *

**What Hurts the Most **

"No."

One swift kick to the face and it could have been over. He could have left me to my misery, walked away with his head held high. He could have been the better man.

Instead, Guy stands poised, fists raised. We have no swords or knives. This will be a bare-knuckled, unrestrained fistfight.

"No," I repeat, coming slowly to my feet. "I don't want to fight you."

"Why not?" Guy asks, edging closer. "Isn't that why we're here?" He opens out his arms to indicate the leafy hollow. "Sixth letter of the alphabet, wasn't it? A fight and a fuck. Isn't that what you want?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I brought you here because it's far enough away from the camp that we won't be disturbed by the gang."

"Believe what you will," Guy leers, "but you don't fool me. You were hoping that a simple sorry and a bit of roughing up to even the score might lead to something more pleasurable. So, come on." Guy waves his fingers at me, inviting me to take him up on his offer.

I shake my head, guiltily wondering if Guy is right, if there had indeed been a deeper, more despicable reason for me bringing him this far into the forest and to this place in particular; the place I'd once envisaged the two of us bloodying each other and then making up in the filthiest way possible.

Guy lowers his fists. "We'll go straight for the fuck then, shall we? A last cock-suck for the oh-so-respectable, don't-muddy-my-name, Robin Hood, before the bells peal out in Locksley for the lord and his lady. His big-bellied wife. Can't wait to hear your explanation for that one to the congregation. Ate a few too many pies with the grubby peasants of Clun, did she?"

"What do you want from me?" I ask.

"I wanted your loyalty, Robin, and your trust."

"You had both of those. You know you did."

"And I wanted you to tell me that you loved me, the way I loved you. But I guess that was too much to ask."

_If I tell him, now, will he let me go quietly, or will it only make matters worse? _

I stay silent.

"A fight it is then," Guy says, raising his fists once more.

"You will regret this," I say, mirroring his stance.

"Not as much as you're going to," Guy retaliates, charging towards me.

He swipes a balled fist at my head. I duck and deliver a swift left hook to his jaw, sending him stumbling backwards.

Quickly recovering his feet, he comes at me again, fists swinging wildly. I deftly sidestep, desperate to keep his knuckles from connecting with my injured middle.

I glance to the side, spot the tree he pushed me into earlier.

Roaring his frustration, Guy turns and charges at me again.

Once more, I manage to evade his flying fists, grabbing a handful of hair as I slip behind his back.

Still gripping his hair, I shove him into the nearby tree, as he did me. His face smacks into the heavily fissured bark.

Taking a couple of steps backwards, I kick him in the back of his knee, once, twice. Guy cries out, clutches the trunk of the tree to keep from falling.

Shakily, I back away.

Guy whirls around, spitting bark and blood.

"Please," I say. "This is madness."

"It's your fault," Guy accuses, swiping a hand under his bloodied nose. "If you had kept that cock of yours under control, none of this would have happened. You'd have been mine and—"

"I'm not some possession."

Snarling, Guy pushes away from the tree.

Anticipating my dodge, he feints a punch to my temple, at the same time lashing out with his foot. Hard leather boot crunches into knee, and I stagger backwards.

Unrelenting, Guy kicks again. The toe of his boot smashes into the half-healed slash on my upper thigh, the sharp spike of pain enough to send me toppling.

Immediately, Guy throws himself on top of me, landing heavily on my stomach. I hiss in agony.

"I have you now," he gloats, his thighs clamping my hips.

I cannot tell whether his triumphant grin is because he's about to deliver a series of blows to render me unconscious, or whether this is the part where he thinks everything changes.

"Yes, you do," I concede, a plan quickly forming as I stare deeply into his eyes. "But if you want to do something about it, you're going to have to get off me before I pass out."

"All right." Cautiously, Guy lifts up onto both knees.

"Thank you," I smile, swiftly crunching my knee into his groin.

With an outraged howl, Guy tips off me. I quickly roll away and leap to my feet.

"So you want to play dirty?" Guy says, pushing up onto all fours.

Grimacing, he stands, tossing back the tangled mass of hair from his blood-streaked face as he does so.

"My game, my rules," I reply.

"Isn't it always?" Guy retorts.

Warily, we circle one another, each looking for an opening.

We both spot the fallen branch at the same time.

Guy lunges, but I am quicker, swiping up the branch, along with a fistful of damp leaves. I brandish the makeshift weapon in front of me, as I would a sword.

"Right back to where we started," Guy says, eyeing the branch. "Arguing over who wins the prize."

"This is not about Marian," I counter.

"I never said it was," Guy returns, backing away as I edge towards him.

"If you don't wish to stay with me, with us, and help put Nottingham to rights," I say, "then walk away. Walk away and let me be. Don't make this any harder than it already is."

"You're the one making it harder, Robin."

One decent blow, that's all it would take. I hate the thought of leaving him lying unconscious in the depths of the forest when night is almost upon us, but the alternative, of me being the one on the ground, isn't any more appealing. With Guy down, I can make my way back to the camp. I don't believe he would dare try to take on the four of us.

I toss the branch onto the ground.

Guy is sick and tired of losing, and I am sick and tired of watching him lose.

"I'm sorry, Guy, truly I am. But it's over. Leave if you want to, beat the shit out of me if it makes you feel any better, I won't stop you. But please try to think about what Marian would have wanted."

Without waiting for any sort of reply, I turn my back on him and start walking in the direction of the camp, fighting tears, fighting the urge to turn around and beg him not to go.

"Don't you dare," he says, "bring Marian into this."

I half turn.

"_Guy might not be so good at capturing outlaws, but he's got a blinding over-arm on him." _Allan, talking about Guy's snowballing prowess.

The branch smacks into my head and I crash to the ground.

Guy seizes his chance.

"This isn't over until I say it's over," he threatens, straddling me.

Cold fingers and thumb grasp my jaw, brutally squeezing until my mouth falls open. He kisses me – a hard, punishing kiss, the slow, wet slide of his tongue on my tongue. The rust-and-salt taste of blood fills my mouth.

Clamping his legs on either side of my legs, he grabs both my wrists and pins them to the ground before I have a chance to think about pushing him off me.

"Again?" he growls.

I whimper, feel myself nodding before I know what I'm doing.

His lips meet my lips, gentler this time, teeth softly nipping. Adjusting his position slightly, so his hips rest above mine, he starts to rock, an almost imperceptible slide up and down my trapped body. A heavy, warm ache of want floods my groin. I groan, partly out of anguished need, partly because he is pressing on my injured middle.

"See, Robin," Guy whispers. "Revenge can be sweet. Now, if you promise me you're going to be a good boy, I'll lift up so you can undo my belt."

Again, I find myself nodding.

Releasing my arms, Guy comes up onto his knees. With practised efficiency, I unbuckle his belt and work his leathers and undergarments down his thighs.

Through the pain and humiliation, I'm dimly aware that I should be fighting back, that I am Robin Hood. Instead, and hating myself more than I ever thought possible, I relax into the forest floor, spreading my legs. God forgive me, but I know what I want him to do.

"Do you remember," Guy asks, curling his fingers around my wrists once more and forcing my arms down by my sides, "when the King arrived in Locksley?"

"Yes."

"And do you remember it was raining?" Guy is staring down at me, a mixture of lust and anticipation in his eyes.

_If you don't want more than blood in the mix, you'd best let go of me._

'_Do it for me,' _he had said, as I sprawled, naked, on top of an equally naked Guy. And so, concentrating on the steady drip, drip, drip of the rain on the manor house's wooden overhang, I had.

Doing his best to avoid pressing on my painful middle, while still holding my arms captive, Guy lowers himself back on top of me, hip to hip.

He buries his face into my neck, his breath warm on my exposed skin. I can smell blood and leather and his long, dark hair.

I stare at the rapidly darkening sky. The first stars are appearing. The ground is cold and there are small twigs and stones digging into my back.

The hands around my wrists loosen slightly and, for a fleeting moment, I think about trying to shove him off me. And then it comes, that warm flow between my legs, and all thoughts of escape are pushed aside, as my intended roar of protest becomes a high-pitched moan of pleasure and longing.

Guy quietly laughs into my neck, pushes himself up onto his knees once more.

"Like I said," he smirks, eyeing my soiled breeches and the telltale bulge between my legs. "This isn't over until I say it's over."

* * *

The left side of my head is hurting. I can taste earth. And blood – mine, or his. I am face down on the forest floor, my arms stretching forwards. My inner thighs are cold and wet, a tangible reminder of what happened earlier, before Guy knocked me out.

I'd been a fool to think he would let me off that easily.

Painfully, I raise my head from the damp, leafy ground and peer forwards.

My arms are resting either side of a tree, my wrists bound by both my and his knife-belt, along with our respective neck scarves and the ties from my breeches, doubtless ripped off while I lay unconscious. If I had been wearing my tag, I'm sure he'd have used the leather strap as well. Along with bow skills, I had taught Guy the art of tethering an enemy with whatever is to hand. One quick tug of my bound wrists informs me he has mastered the skill.

For a moment, I think Guy has left me here, alone, until his heavy black boot lands alongside my face.

"My game, my rules," Guy says, echoing my earlier words.

I turn my head to the side, lay my aching left temple on the cool earth. I would give anything for a drink of water, but I doubt that will be any more forthcoming than my release.

"What are you going to do?" I ask.

"I am going to teach you a lesson," Guy says, placing a booted foot on my back. "I'm going to show you what it's like to be used."

"Guy, I swear to you, I never used you. All the things we did together, all the times we shared in Locksley meant everything to me. You mean everything to me."

"You've got a funny way of showing it."

"Listen, if I could change things, I would. Believe me. But I can't. I won't walk away from something I'm responsible for."

"Because it's not the Robin Hood way?"

"No, because it's not my way."

Guy grunts, lifts his boot off my back and takes a step backwards. I grit my teeth, readying myself for the kicks or blows I am sure he is about to deliver.

Instead, he squats beside me.

"Do you know what hurts the most?" he says, almost conversationally. "It's me, being a fool, for believing I had found someone who truly cared for me, despite everything I've done."

"You did find someone. You found me. Guy, after Marian..."

"After Marian what?"

"After she died, I wanted nothing more than to give up, regardless of the promises I made to her. You know I did. Without you, I'd be nothing more than a rotting corpse right now."

"That was my first mistake," he says.

"You don't mean that."

Guy comes to his feet. He walks behind the tree, drops to his haunches and checks my bonds. Satisfied I cannot escape, he walks off into the trees, returning a short while later. I guess he had gone to relieve himself, and can just imagine how he must have cursed at having nothing more than leaves to hand. I quickly push the thought to the back of my mind. I don't like to think how long he might decide to keep me tethered here.

After another inspection of my bound wrists, Guy stands next to me and, once again, I ready myself for whatever punishment he is about to mete out.

"A few punches, a quick grope on the forest floor, and you think we're all square," he says, crouching close to my head.

It is not a question.

"What are you going to do?" I ask. "Kill me?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Because that's the Guy of Gisborne way."

"And you say you trust me," he sneers.

Guy sits on my lower back, pushing my injured stomach into the hard ground.

"Believe me, Robin, I thought about it. But no, that's too easy. I want you to pay for your betrayal."

"Guy, I told you. I only found out about the baby yesterday. It was as much of a shock for me as it is for you."

"Such a shock that you thought a bit of mutual masturbation would be a pleasant way to start our evening?" he says, digging his knees into my ribs. "What else have you lied about?"

"Nothing."

"I don't believe you. You and she were always in cahoots. For all I know, you were the one who put her up to all her lies and deceptions."

I know he's not talking about Rowena.

"Think what you will," I say, "but I'm telling the truth. So, what do you want from me, other than the pleasure of seeing me hurt?"

Guy leans down, wraps his hands loosely around my neck. "I played by the rules, Robin. I played by Vaisey's rules and I ended up with nothing. I played by her rules and ended up with nothing." He leans down further still, his long hair draping over my head and across my face. "And I played by your rules – still nothing."

"If you want money, I can get it for you. I can—"

Guy's hands tighten around my neck.

"Is that how little you think of me after all we've been through?"

"Then what?" I ask. "You're going to kill me? Mess with me a bit and then kill me?"

"Like I said, too easy. No, I'm going to make you pay. Pay for allowing me to believe we had a future together. Pay for humiliating me in front of your men. And, yes, I know they're not exactly my friends, but in time."

He trails off, but he has said enough to leave me in no doubt that his greatest wish, apart from being with me, was to be accepted by my friends, liked even.

"If you try to get to the King," I say, "his men will cut you down. You will never even get near him. And John's supporters will not trust you either. Not now they suspect you and I have shared a bed."

"Ha!" Guy exclaims, shuffling down my legs until his full weight is on the backs of my knees. "Is that what you're so afraid of? Why you tried to keep the truth from me? Once again, Robin, you have missed the point, insisting on looking at the grand scheme of things instead of what's in front of that noble nose of yours. You think this is about your precious King Richard and your beloved Nottingham and its people. Well, let me enlighten you."

Guy slips a hand between my legs, runs those practised fingers of his up and down the seams of my soaked breeches. I bite down on a twitch of unbidden lust.

"I have a better way of hurting you," Guy says, cupping my ball-sack, gently squeezing. "By going to Nottingham and telling everyone what you're really like, what you've been doing since your return to England. 'Gisborne is here as my guest.' That's what you told those miserable peasants of yours as they listened intently to their lord and master, bowed their heads and mumbled, 'Yes, My Lord, no, My Lord, three bags full, My Lord.' "

"I was only trying to protect you."

"I don't need your protection." Guy slides his hand from between my legs. "I'm going to tell them what you've been doing with your _guest_," he says, tugging on the waistband of my breeches. "All the dirty, filthy games we played in Locksley, right under their noses."

He works my breeches down my thighs. The evening air is cool on my exposed legs and buttocks.

"But first, I'm going to remind you what you'll be missing when you're lying in bed with your whore."

"Guy, please don't do this."

"Shall I tell them you prefer me on top?" he says, ignoring my entreaty. "Tell them how often we have to change the bed sheets, tell them how you speak my name in your sleep?"

"Stop. Please."

"Stop?" Guy says. "I don't think so. I've only just started, after all."

Guy shifts his position and two powerful arms snake their way under my hipbones and jerk me up onto my knees. The belts and ties cut further into my wrists.

He spits, slips moistened fingers between my buttocks. I close my eyes, willing myself not to respond.

"I'm going to humiliate you, Robin of Locksley, so that you are hounded out of your home, sent away in disgrace. And as for your unborn child. Imagine the day your son or daughter hears about their absent father. All those whispered stories, all those sideways glances and pointing fingers. The stories of Robin-cock-loving-Hood."

I can hardly believe that Guy's love for me could descend so quickly into this bitter, hurtful act.

_This is Gisborne – remember?_

I should learn to listen to John.

"What about your reputation?" I say. "If you tell everyone about us, you'll be finished in Nottingham, along with me."

"You think I care. There is nothing for me here, not anymore."

He withdraws his fingers from my backside, and I ready myself for what comes next. There is no point resisting. I cannot escape. And Guy can be a violent man when he wants to be. I could, of course, beg him not to, appeal to the 'better man' that Marian, and now I, both know exists. But I have hurt him too deeply to think that he will back out now and, shamefully, I admit that I want him to do this more than I want to get out of it.

I bow my head in silent surrender.

Laughing softly, Guy pushes into me, and I realise that all the time he has been talking about how he is going to besmirch my good name he must have been quietly fingering himself.

"Renaud was right," he says, between measured pushes and pulls.

"Renaud?"

"Forget love," he told me. "And especially forget those who never return the sentiment."

I guess Guy is talking about the first man he was intimate with, if you discount the men who raped him, who left him naked and bleeding to limp, empty-handed, back to his younger sister, Isabella.

"You'd have thought I'd learned my lesson with Marian."

"Please," I say.

"Is that please keep going, or please get off me you filthy, fucking bastard?"

I grit my teeth, don't answer, concentrate instead on my belted wrists. If I can get free, I can stop him from going to Nottingham, stop him from destroying us both, maybe even find a way for us to be together. All I need is time to think things through. There has to be an answer, a way for me to have what I want. A way for us both to have what we want.

"Guy, I'm sorry about last night, sorry I didn't tell you sooner. It was wrong of me. I made a mistake."

"Try telling that to the people of Nottingham the next time you go to market."

Guy's fingers curl around my increasingly hardening cock.

"Don't," I say, cursing how weak I sound.

Ignoring me, Guy begins to work me the way he knows I like it.

I jerk backwards, in an effort to throw him off me, but it is a half-hearted attempt at best, and I know I am simply doing it to save face.

Guy laughs. "You'll have to try harder than that, Robin."

Grinding my forehead into the forest floor, I beg the God that has deserted me to forgive me for giving into such earthy desires as my heart speeds up in anticipation of that exquisite moment of letting go.

"Feels good, doesn't it?" he says. "Me on you. Us having our forest fuck. Feels dangerous. I don't know why I've never tried tying you up before."

"There's a first time for everything," I say.

One of my wrists is starting to work free of the belt.

"This is what you want, Robin. This is what you crave. Danger. Excitement. Not some compliant little woman, who'll meekly lie there, open her legs and whisper sweet endearments in your ear, while thinking about crocheting a new blanket for the cradle. This is what took you to war, what made you an outlaw, take risks in the castle. This is why you're with me and why nothing and no-one can come close."

He is right. I do crave this. I want to feel his flesh on my flesh, feel him inside me. Because he keeps me alive, and because it keeps her death away.

My right hand slips out of the belt, and I reckon that with enough force I might be able to loosen the ties as well.

Guy's thrusts are harder now, words replaced by throaty grunts.

Tipping my face towards my spread legs, I watch his hand on my cock, speeding up and slowing down – sure, practised, perfect.

My eyes flick to the slash on my upper thigh, purpling from the kick Guy gave it, and I recall being pinned to the wall, in Locksley, Guy at my back.

I don't care if this is wrong. I am past the point of trying to fight or talk my way out of it. I'm committed, stepping off the cliff, welcoming the fall.

Guiltily, I work my freed hand back through the looped belt.

Moments later, my ejaculate spatters onto the winter-brown leaves beneath me.

Guy is quick to follow me in defiling the forest floor.

I collapse onto the ground, uncaring of my painful middle, knowing only that Guy has won, and I let him, and I'm not even sorry about it.

"Humiliation, Robin," Guy whispers in my ear. "That's what hurts the most. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. And this will hurt a lot more than having your hair cut off."

Once again, he is right. Losing the respect of my people will hurt; I'll be finished as Robin Hood. But losing him, losing all those moments we shared since returning to England, will hurt more. His smiles and open laughter. Those simple acts of eating and drinking together, in Locksley. Lying in bed, wrapped in each other's arms. Of being with the only other person on this earth who understands what it was to love and to lose Marian. All those precious moments. Gone, forever.

I can hear Guy doing up his belt buckle, doubtless preparing to leave me lying here, tied to a tree, my piss-soaked breeches halfway down my legs, my exposed crotch resting on the evidence of our depraved coupling.

Guy crouches next to my head and I turn my face away from him.

"Save your tears, Robin," he says. "I'm still going to Nottingham."

**to be continued...**


	27. Revelations

**Disclaimer: **original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_Humiliation, Robin," Guy whispers in my ear. "That's what hurts the most. Trust me, I know what I'm talking about. And this will hurt a lot more than having your hair cut off." _

_Once again, he is right. Losing the respect of my people will hurt; I'll be finished as Robin Hood. But losing him, losing all those moments we shared since returning to England, will hurt more. His smiles and open laughter. Those simple acts of eating and drinking together in Locksley. Lying in bed, wrapped in each other's arms. Of being with the only other person on this earth who understands what it was to love and to lose Marian. All those precious moments. Gone, forever. _

_I can hear Guy doing up his belt buckle, doubtless preparing to leave me lying here, tied to a tree, my piss-soaked breeches halfway down my legs, my exposed crotch resting on the evidence of our depraved coupling. _

_Guy crouches next to my head and I turn my face away from him. _

"_Save your tears, Robin," he says. "I'm still going to Nottingham."_

* * *

**Revelations**

It's no good me lying here, crying over what could have been. I have to stop Guy. If I don't, then by this time tomorrow the whole of Nottingham might know that Robin Hood slips his fingers into more than rich men's purses.

Cursing my weakness at not felling Guy when I had the chance, I work my way up onto my bare knees, shuffle closer to the tree and slip my right hand from the already loosened belt. Several rough jerks and a number of choice oaths later, I am free of my bonds.

Gingerly, I part the hair on the left side of my head. My fingers come away bloody, but there is no time to tend to it now. I may be fleeter than him when it comes to running, but Guy already has a good start on me, and he knows the quickest way to Nottingham just as well as I do. My best, and maybe only, chance it seems is to hurry back to the camp, grab a horse and overtake Guy, before he reaches the town gate.

Stiffly, I stand, working my wet braies and breeches up my cold thighs. Without my lacings, I have to rely on my knife-belt, along with Guy's, to hold my breeches around my ever-shrinking waistline. I only hope that when I reach the camp I can jump on a horse and be away before any of the gang realises what is happening. I do not want to have to deal with Much fussing over my cut head, Allan's 'I told you so' face, or John's quiet anger. I told them I would deal with Guy on my own and I intend to do just that.

I glance around the moonlit hollow. Somewhere under the fallen leaves is my ring, that tangible piece of evidence symbolising my commitment to Guy and to our relationship. Sadly, I realise there is no point looking for it, even if I did have the time. What happened here tonight was nothing more than a desperate attempt, albeit a violent and twisted one, at keeping hold of what we are about to lose: each other.

Ignoring my various aches and pains, I start running towards the camp. And while I run, I think about my chances of stopping Guy.

The high walls surrounding Nottingham have only one gatehouse and that gatehouse is in the hands of Murdac's men-at-arms. And without a long ladder or rope, and a great deal of courage or foolhardiness, depending on how you look at it, there is no way Guy will be able to scale any of the walls in order to gain entry into the town. If it had been Vaisey's men guarding the gate, I am certain Guy could talk or even bribe his way in, but I doubt Murdac's men will be so easy to dupe.

Murdac wants me to pay for killing his brother, and if he can get to me through any of my men, including Guy, he will. I do not believe Guy will last long under torture and his capture might mean more than the loss of my good name. He might tell John's supporters of the King's whereabouts and that an army is on its way to Nottingham to retake the castle. If Murdac's men-at-arms attack the King's camp before Christophe returns with reinforcements, Richard will hold me personally responsible. This possibility is a far greater threat than the possibility of it becoming common knowledge that Robin Hood is bedding a man.

I need my bow. I have to get to Guy before Murdac's men do. Appealing to Guy's better nature will not work. I know that. But perhaps by putting an arrow in his leg I might be able to slow him down enough that I can get to him. Maybe I'll even be able to knock him out, get him on my horse and take him back to the camp, although how I'll manage the horse bit, I have no idea. All I know is that I have to try.

My laboured breaths and my boots thumping on the leaves and twigs underfoot seem to echo through the trees and up into the night sky. I feel certain the whole of Nottingham can hear me approaching even though I know that's impossible.

I wonder if Guy is equally aware of his progress through the forest: the pounding of his great black boots, his thudding heart, the rub and creak of his leathers. I also wonder if his nose is still bleeding. If Murdac's men take him alive he will end up with more than a bloody nose. The thought of some ruthless man-at-arms cutting Guy, or breaking his bones, in an attempt to get him to reveal the whereabouts of our forest camp is more painful than any of my aching body parts.

I run faster.

* * *

There is something trickling down the side of my face: sweat, or blood, possibly both. A rabbit darts across the track, momentarily slowing my pace, long enough for me to realise that Guy and me are not the only ones running through the forest tonight.

I quickly push into a tangle of undergrowth and listen intently. Someone is heading in my direction. For a heart-soaring moment, I think it is Guy, until I realise the footfalls are too light for it to be him. Much or Allan maybe? I push deeper into the thicket. Without my weapons, I'd be a fool to chance an encounter with one of Murdac's men, however unlikely that might be at this late hour.

Cautiously, I peer through the branches and along the moonlit track. A figure comes into view. Even from this distance, I can make out that it is not one of the gang. It is someone quite short, with shoulder-length, dark hair, wearing a loose cloak and clutching a longbow.

The man slows his pace, his head switching from side to side, as if confused.

It is Luke Scarlett.

With a sigh of relief, I disentangle myself from the spiky branches of my hiding place and step out onto the track.

"Luke," I say softly, trying not to frighten the boy with my sudden appearance.

"Who's there?" he calls, raising his bow and clumsily nocking an arrow.

"It's me, Robin." I take a couple of steps towards him, spreading my arms to show that I am both unarmed and that I am who I say I am.

"Robin," Luke says, smiling in recognition. He lowers his bow, slips his arrow back into his quiver and walks towards me.

"What are you doing in the forest so late?" I ask. "Has something happened?"

Immediately, I regret the question. If he is about to tell me that someone needs my help, I don't want to know. All I can think about is that with every passing moment, Guy is getting nearer to Nottingham and closer to ruining everything.

"What?" Luke asks.

"In Locksley? Is there trouble? Is that why you were running?"

I recall this morning's escapades – jumping off the cottage roof and landing on the back of the Black Knight's horse – and wonder if Murdac, on hearing of their failure to capture me, has sent his men-at-arms back to Locksley to threaten my people.

"No, no trouble," Luke says, peering at me. "You're hurt. Have you been in a fight?"

"Something like that," I reply, recalling Guy's all-too-accurate branch throwing and me sprawled on the ground, the moment I knew I was going to let Guy do whatever he liked because anything was preferable to him walking away.

Luke's eyes travel from my cut head, down my muddied shirt, to my soiled breeches. Crinkling his brow in puzzlement, he flicks his eyes back to my face.

Ignoring the question in his eyes, I say, "I need to get to the camp – fast. Can you talk and run?"

"Of course. Can you?" Luke indicates my bleeding head.

"I'll live." I give what I hope is a reassuring smile.

Luke smiles back, instantly reminding me of his older brother, Will. I wonder what Will and Djaq are doing tonight. Making babies probably. The thought both frightens and saddens me, as I think of Rowena waiting for me to give her a better life than the one she's had so far, and Marian, the only woman I ever imagined having children with.

"So," I say, pushing my dark thoughts away and resuming running, Luke at my side. "What are you doing in the forest after dark?"

"I was looking for your camp."

"You were heading in the wrong direction."

"I know that now," Luke says, swatting a low-hanging branch in obvious annoyance. "I was sure I could find it. Will told me about it often enough. But it wasn't as easy as I thought. All the trees look the same."

"Not when you've lived here as long as I have they don't."

He turns and smiles at me, grateful for my excuse.

"Why did you need to find the camp?" I ask. "To find me, I presume?"

"Yes. I'm supposed to give you this. The man who gave it to me said it was important. He said he'll be back in the morning for your reply."

Luke slips his hand under his cloak and pulls out a small scroll of parchment. "Here," he says, handing it to me as we run.

Despite the need for haste, I slow to a walk and, finding an area relatively free of trees, well lit by the near-full moon, I unroll and read the neatly written message and the signature at the bottom of the parchment.

Luke presses against my arm and leans in to get a better look, even though I know he can't read.

"Is it bad news?" he asks, doubtless hearing my sharp intake of breath.

"Maybe," I say. "Who gave you this message?"

"One of the guards from the castle. He said someone must deliver it to Robin Hood as quickly as possible. He got all the villagers together and asked if anyone knew where your camp was. A young boy, Roger, said he would take it to your servant. But his mother wouldn't let him go, so I said I would. I told the man I knew where your camp was. I'm sorry, Robin. I shouldn't have lied."

"It doesn't matter," I say, kindly. "You found me, that's the important thing."

"The man who gave you the message," I ask. "Did he try to follow you?"

"Yes," Luke grins. "But I gave him the slip. I'm not stupid, Robin."

"I know you're not. Good lad." I ruffle his hair.

"What does the message say?" Luke asks, shuffling away from me to escape any more fatherly gestures. Luke obviously regards himself as a man even though, to me, he will always be that shy yet eager boy who I met shortly after returning from the Crusades.

"It's from the new sheriff," I tell him. "He wants me to go to the castle, tomorrow."

"What for?"

"He wants to talk to me."

I'm not going to tell Luke that Murdac is proposing a one-on-one sword fight with me; there is no point alarming the boy.

"The sheriff's name is Murdac, isn't it?" Luke asks.

"Yes. Have you seen him? Did he ever visit Locksley, I mean before I came back?"

"No, I've never seen him. I don't think any of the villagers have. I heard a rumour that he's been sick all winter and that a London physician was called for. Rowena told me about him, though. She said he's a nasty piece of work. She said that when she was working in the castle Murdac used to—"

I know we should be running, that my chances of stopping Guy reaching Nottingham are becoming slimmer the longer I remain here, talking to Luke. But something about the way Luke stopped mid-sentence makes me think he is hiding something, something important.

"Used to what?" I ask.

"Nothing," Luke says, biting his lip and half-turning towards the trees, as though to avoid my penetrating stare. "It doesn't matter."

"I think it does," I say. Tell me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I promised I wouldn't say anything to anybody."

"Luke," I say, as patiently as I can. "I understand about promises and the need to keep them. But I also understand that sometimes, if it's the right thing to do, you have to break them. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Yes. No. Was it one of Prince John's men who did that to you?" Luke asks, pointing at my bloodied head.

Hasty lies claw up my throat: I tripped and bashed my head; an animal took me by surprise; I ran into a branch.

"No. It wasn't."

"Who then?"

"It was Guy," I tell him, wondering how much Luke knows about Guy and me, desperately hoping Rowena has spared him the sordid details.

"Gisborne?"

"Yes."

"I thought you two were friends. Rowena told me he was part of your gang now. If that's true, why would he hurt you?"

I close my eyes in thankfulness. Luke doesn't know.

"You know what he's like. We had a disagreement and he went for me."

Luke shakes his head in bemusement. "I don't understand. You always used to win against him."

"Well, this time I lost. But he was right to be angry with me. I've wronged him, and now he's heading for Nottingham and possibly grave danger. Murdac's men know that Guy was working for me. If they see him, they will take him prisoner, or worse. I can't let that happen."

"Can I help?" Luke asks.

"Yes, you can."

Luke smiles, and a sharp pain slices through my chest as I think of Will and all that I have lost since those days when I was living in the camp, when I had nothing more to worry about than how to foil Vaisey's latest scheme to put all our heads on spikes and robbing the purse of any nobleman making his way through Sherwood.

"What do you want me to do?" Luke asks.

"This message," I say, waving the piece of parchment at Luke, "says that if I don't come to the castle by sundown tomorrow, Murdac will send men to Locksley to burn down the village. I want you to tell Murdac's messenger that I will come to the castle, alone, but if Murdac's men so much as rub two sticks together in Locksley, I will put an arrow in Murdac's back. Have you got that?"

"Yes," Luke replies. He lowers his eyes. "I'm...I'm sorry I ran away that day, Robin. After dad died, Will told me to be careful. He said that his being an outlaw meant that one day soon I might be the only one of our family left."

"There's no need to be sorry, Luke. I do not blame you for running. I'm just glad neither you, nor the other lads were hurt."

"I should have come back, though, after the fighting was over. Rowena was counting on me. I guess you took her to Matilda?"

"There was no need. Little John stitched up her wound."

"Her wound?"

"One of the guards cut her leg," I explain.

"Oh." Luke looks puzzled, and I recall that he and the other lads were already gone by the time Rowena slumped to the ground, near to the guard I'd just decapitated – Murdac's brother.

"I didn't know about her leg. I was talking about—" Luke shakes his head, looks at the ground.

"About what?" I ask, placing my hands on his shoulders. "Please Luke. Whatever it is you're not telling me, I know it is important. It has something to do with Murdac, doesn't it? Something to do with him and Rowena?"

Luke raises his head, nods. "Please don't tell her I told you, will you? Only she's got a hell of a temper on her sometimes."

"I know," I half-smile, recalling Rowena's slap to my cheek earlier this morning. "Now tell me. And make it fast."

I let go his shoulders and step back a pace. Luke toes the leaves and clears his throat.

"Go on," I say, encouragingly.

Luke starts to talk and I listen patiently, despite my growing anxiety over Guy.

He tells me about Rowena's arrival in Locksley and how he and his friends, Robert and Thomas, had befriended her when it became clear she had no family. He tells me about her prowess with a bow, reminding the villagers of the kind Lady Marian, who they all knew practised fighting skills in Knighton's gardens even though they acted dumb to the knowledge. He tells me how Rowena liked to pretend to be me and how she would pick men's pockets and give the resulting coin to the villagers. Everyone had quickly fallen in love with the slight girl with the big brown eyes and the sticking out ears that she tried so hard to hide. Luke too, judging by the small smile on his face as he talks about Rowena, my future bride.

"Tell me about Murdac," I say.

"Murdac sent men to take Rowena back to the castle. He said Rowena was his property. Rowena wasn't having it and fired arrows at them and they went away."

"Just like that?" I smile.

Even though I have seen a little of Rowena's fighting skills, I can hardly believe she fought off a contingent of Prince John's elite guards singlehandedly.

"There were only two of them," Luke explains.

"Oh, I see. Then what happened?"

"Then Elisabeth...you know Elisabeth?"

"The lavender girl?"

"Who?" Luke asks.

"The fair-haired girl, Nessa's daughter."

"Yes, her. She was ill, badly ill, and Rowena knew she needed a doctor, so she took a horse and rode to Nottingham. When she didn't come back, I knew someone had to do something, so I fetched Matilda and she made Elisabeth better."

"Then what?" I ask.

"Three days later, Rowena came back."

Luke isn't smiling when he says this.

"Go on," I say.

Luke takes a deep breath, as though readying himself for battle.

"I'd been waiting at the top of the hill for her, just like I did the day before and the day before that. I thought I'd never see her again, but just before nightfall, she appeared, running towards Locksley as though the Devil himself was after her. When she reached me, I could see her dress was torn and there were cuts on her arms. I knew something bad had happened to her, but she wouldn't tell me what."

"Murdac had beaten her, is that it? Luke?"

Luke bows his head. "Worse than that."

What could be worse than...unless. "Did Murdac touch her? Did he—"

"Please, Robin. Luke is shaking, his fists clenching and unclenching, just as Guy's do whenever he is angry or upset. "Please don't say it."

I place a soothing hand on the boy's arm. "I need to know, Luke. You have to tell me."

Luke nods, continues.

"A little while after she came back, Rowena asked me to go to the healer's house. She told me to ask Matilda for some particular herbs, said it was important. But Matilda wouldn't give them to me, said Rowena was too young and it might be dangerous, and that if Rowena wanted them she should come to Matilda's house and she would look after her. When I went back to Rowena, empty-handed, she was mad at me. She clumped me round the ear, said I was a stupid boy. Then she burst into tears. That's when she told me that she thought she might be having a baby and that she needed something to take it away."

"Rowena is going to be all right, isn't she? Robin?"

The gnawing anxiety in my stomach turns to stone, drops to my boots.

Murdac raped Rowena. The child is not mine.

**to be continued...**


	28. For England, For Guy

**Disclaimer: **original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made. Robin and Guy belong to legend.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_Murdac had beaten her, is that it? Luke?" _

_Luke bows his head. "Worse than that." _

_What could be worse than...unless. "Did Murdac touch her? Did he—"_

"_Please, Robin. Luke is shaking, his fists clenching and unclenching, just as Guy's do whenever he is angry or upset. "Please don't say it."_

_I place a soothing hand on the boy's arm. "I need to know, Luke. You have to tell me."_

_Luke nods, continues._

"_A little while after she came back, Rowena asked me to go to the healer's house. She told me to ask Matilda for some particular herbs, said it was important. But Matilda wouldn't give them to me, said Rowena was too young and it might be dangerous, and that if Rowena wanted them she should come to Matilda's house and she would look after her. When I went back to Rowena, empty-handed, she was mad at me. She clumped me round the ear, said I was a stupid boy. Then she burst into tears. That's when she told me that she thought she might be having a baby and that she needed something to take it away." _

"_Rowena is going to be all right, isn't she? Robin?"_

_The gnawing anxiety in my stomach turns to stone, drops to my boots._

_Murdac raped Rowena. The child is not mine._

* * *

**For England, For Guy**

It's all starting to make sense – the way Rowena latched onto me the moment I arrived in Locksley, her eagerness that we couple so quickly. And me, still grieving over Marian, wrestling with my dark-hearted desires and my want of Guy, willing to go along with her if it meant I could push my hurts and my haunts away.

"Robin?"

I take a steadying breath, turn my attention back to Luke.

"What?"

"I said, Rowena's going to be all right, isn't she?"

Poor Luke. He knows nothing of my torment, concerned only that the girl he has loved from afar has no husband to protect and provide for both her and the child she is carrying.

"Yes, she's going to be fine," I tell him, struggling to get my words past the angry tightness in my throat. "I will personally see to it."

I run my tongue around the inside of my mouth, trying to work some saliva back into the dryness, my thoughts toppling over one another: Rowena lied to me, Murdac is a despicable piece of shit, Guy doesn't need to go to Nottingham, we can still be together.

Swallowing the ache of hurt and regret clawing up my throat, I ask Luke, as calmly as I can, to tell me again about Rowena's request for herbs to rid herself of the child growing inside her.

Luke looks at me oddly, surprised no doubt that Robin Hood failed to grasp his words on first telling, but he does as I ask and slowly and carefully recounts everything that happened after Rowena, free of Murdac's clutches, returned to Locksley and entreated Luke to help her.

While Luke is quietly telling me this, I am trying to think what to do next. Should I continue to the camp, grab a horse and try to catch up with Guy, or should I turn around and head for the King's camp, in case I don't reach Guy in time and he tells Murdac's men of Richard's whereabouts? Whatever my feelings for Guy, the King has to come first. If Richard's planned attack on the castle fails because of anything Guy might say, I dread to think what will become of Nottingham and its people. Murdac's men-at-arms have been raiding the surrounding villages all winter, taking food, tools and whatever else they might need, enabling them to stay holed up in the castle until Prince John orders otherwise. My gang and I have done what we can, handing out the last of our coin and food stocks, robbing the odd noble still brave or foolish enough to make his way through Sherwood. But it is not enough, and the harvests are too far off to make a difference. Shall I risk my friends, all the people I care about because of my feelings for one person, and a man at that?

"Are you all right?" Luke asks, clearly concerned by my uneasy silence.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just tired and my head hurts." I touch my fingers to my bloodied hair.

"Perhaps you should be the one going to see Matilda," Luke suggests.

"I'll be all right. I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks."

Luke glances at my mud-smeared clothing and wet breeches.

"Guy hit me with a branch," I explain. "I passed out for a bit."

Plainly uncomfortable at the thought of his hero lying on the forest floor relieving himself while unconsciousness, Luke mumbles a quiet, "Oh, I see."

I let him think it, the truth being a far worse alternative.

There is a moment of awkward silence, broken when Luke blurts, "I saw her the other day. Rowena, I mean. When I was visiting my friend, Robert, in Clun. She was just walking out of the village."

"Oh?"

"I asked her where she was going, but she wouldn't say. And then I asked her if she ever got the herbs she wanted and she said no, that she'd changed her mind and was going to have the baby."

"When did you see her?"

"The day before yesterday."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I remember because it was raining and I helped old Cartwright mend a hole in his roof."

Two long days ago – the day King Richard arrived in Locksley and tried to make a move on me, the day Guy came charging down the stairs, sword in hand, and the day Rowena arrived in the camp only to find me sleeping. Whether she had come to tell me about Murdac and ask for my help, or whether she had come with the sole purpose of lying to me, I will never know, because the next day we were in the King's camp, begging Guy's release, and Rowena was sick in front of an amused Richard, and shortly afterwards I was down on one knee, proposing.

"Did she say anything else?" I ask Luke. "About the father, about Murdac?"

"No." Luke shakes his head. "It won't be easy for her, will it, Robin? Especially as she has no husband and the baby will be a...you know."

Luke lowers his eyes, stares at the ground, and I realise how frightening and incomprehensible this must be to a lad who still has some growing to do.

"She is a brave and resourceful girl," I tell him. "I'm sure she will be fine."

"I don't know," Luke says. "I don't think big Thomas wants her to stay there, with him and his sickly wife. When I visited Rowena, after she left Locksley, I overheard Thomas saying he didn't want no more mouths to feed and that the father had better do the right thing by the girl or he'd have Thomas to answer to. But Rowena wouldn't want to marry Murdac if he was the last man on earth, would she, Robin? So I was thinking that I could...well, I could offer to..."

"You could what?" I ask.

If I catch up with Guy and tell him about Rowena, there will be no need for him to go to Nottingham. And if he doesn't reach Nottingham then the King's whereabouts, the location of our camp and the fact that he and I are lovers, will remain a secret. I think of Richard in his lavish tent, with his fine wine and his thick blankets, waiting for Christophe to return to his bed, fantasising about me – the one who got away. Stuff the King. Richard is big enough and hairy enough to look after himself. Not so Guy. He'll lash out at the first man that touches him.

_Everything is a choice, everything we do._

"I could marry her," Luke mumbles, his eyes fixed on my mud-spattered boots.

"Sorry?"

"I am not so much younger than her, and I have a house and my carpentry to live by. I could even build another room for the baby, and—"

I place a soothing hand on his shoulder and Luke looks up, blushing.

"Sorry, Robin. I'm being stupid. Rowena doesn't want me; she's already made that plain. The only person she's ever wanted, the only man she ever talks about, is you. Perhaps you could marry her. I mean when you're not an outlaw anymore. If you wanted to, that is."

At any other time, I might have smiled at Luke's awkward confession of love, but not today.

"Luke, I know you are worried about her, but right now we have other things to think of. Like the fact you need to get back to Locksley in time to give my reply to Murdac's messenger."

"Do you really think Murdac will burn Locksley if you don't show up at the castle?" Luke asks.

"I think Murdac is capable of almost anything."

The moment I say these words, my resentment over Rowena's lies melts away. She may be brave and resourceful, but those attributes did not save her from Murdac's unholy attack. God willing that I make it to the castle before sundown, I swear will do my utmost to plunge my sword into Murdac's black heart.

"If I ever see that man, I will put an arrow in him," Luke says, raising his longbow as though he expects Murdac to come walking towards us at any moment, happy to oblige. "I don't care if it's wrong."

"You'll have to get past me first," I tell him.

"You'll beat Murdac and all those men at the castle, won't you, Robin? You'll make things right, just like you always do?"

"I will try my best, Luke. Now, you should get going. Can you find your way back to Locksley in the dark?"

"I'm sure I can. Besides, it's growing light already. See."

I look up. Luke is right. It is dawn, the beginning of a new day. I rub my eyes, stinging with tiredness and lack of sleep.

"Good lad," I say. "And Luke?"

"Yes?"

"Whatever happens, whatever you may hear in the days that follow, promise me you'll seek out my gang. Tell them I sent you. Tell them..."

Tell them what? That Robin Hood decided to risk his neck chasing after a man who kills without thought, who cares nothing for Nottingham and its people – a man I choose to lie with.

"Tell them what, Robin?"

"That they are to see that Rowena and the baby are looked after. I trust you'll help too?"

"Yes, of course I'll tell them, but you're going to be—"

"I have to go," I interrupt. "And you should hurry. If you miss that messenger Murdac will think you have failed to find me, or that I am not prepared to do as he asks, and if that happens Locksley will be in grave danger and I cannot allow that."

"I will run like the wind, Robin."

I offer Luke a bloodied hand and he grasps it. Unlike Guy's hands, which are always warm whatever the weather, Luke's is cold.

"Good luck," I say, giving Luke a firm handshake.

"Good luck yourself, Robin."

"That way," I point.

With a grateful smile, Luke turns and immediately starts running along the track that will lead him back to Locksley.

As soon as he is out of sight, I start my own bone-weary run in the direction of the camp. I have made up my mind. I am going to tell the gang to go to the King's camp and warn Richard that he might want to move his men to a new location, or at least make ready for attack. And while they are doing that, I am going to go after Guy and stop him from making a terrible mistake.

* * *

The camp is deserted. The gang are not here.

_Damn._

I count the horses – five. That means Guy has not tried to steal one to get to Nottingham quicker, and the gang have decided to go looking for me on foot.

I look up at the grey sky and the even greyer clouds scudding across it. It is full morning. I have between now and sundown to get to Guy. And after that? Murdac wants me to face him in a duel and right now, battered and bruised though I am, I can think of no other alternative. Locksley will suffer if I do not meet his demands and if, by God's grace, I defeat him, it might mean a swift end to John's supporters holding Nottingham Castle. Guy will most likely protest at the idiocy of my choosing to fight a man whose strengths I do not know when I am struggling to put one foot in front of the other, but today I am going to follow my heart and hope that it is strong enough.

Hastily, I saddle the bay that I rode on my way back from the King's camp, after I secured Guy's release. Thinking it wise to carry some water with me, I find a skin and fill it from the overflowing water barrel. Next to the barrel is a board upon which sit a few pieces of old-looking bread and some unidentifiable meat: the remains of the gang's supper.

I have no desire to eat but manage to force a few mouthfuls of dry bread down my throat. Passing on the meat, I head towards the sleeping area in search of clean clothes and my weapons.

Finding fresh clothing, I quickly change out of my soiled shirt, breeches and undergarments. My bow and quiver and my sword are lying on my bunk. Reaching to pick them up, the longing to slip under the blanket and sleep is so strong I start to shake. Determinedly, I push the thought away and, with a skill borne of years of practise, swiftly secure my weapons. When Guy is safe and we are back in Locksley, together, we will lie in bed with our arms wrapped around each other and sleep for a week, or at least until the desire for sex persuades us otherwise.

I snatch up a discarded neck-scarf – one of Much's – and press it to my branch-bashed scalp. Happily, it comes away almost bloodless. Striding back to the water barrel, I dip the scarf into the collected rainwater and wipe my face. The water is icy but at least it wakes me up.

Leading the saddled bay a short distance from the other horses, I painfully mount. My injured middle, all but forgotten in the fight with Guy and the degrading acts that followed, is throbbing uncomfortably. I dare not lift my shirt to see what damage I might have done during both the fight and my subsequent tearing through the forest.

I click my mount forwards and, as soon as we hit the wider track, head off at a decent gallop. If Guy has calmed down since making his threats about revealing our sinful relationship to the whole of Nottingham and is currently sheltering somewhere in the forest, fast asleep, I will kill him.

* * *

Reaching the edge of the forest, I rein in my horse and scan the open grassland lying between the tree line and Nottingham's town walls.

Guy is nowhere in sight.

My disappointment is so acute, I let out a dry sob and press my face into the horse's warm mane. Either Guy has safely entered the town, and is even now telling anyone who'll listen that the renowned Robin Hood beds men, or he has been captured and is imprisoned in the castle dungeons, waiting for Murdac's men to prise the location of our forest hideout out of him. Of course, he might be wining and dining in the Great Hall, receiving a pat on the back for revealing that Richard the Lionheart lives and breathes just a few short miles away.

I lift my head and scrub at my eyes. I am not thinking straight. Guy is travelling on foot and I am on horseback. Many tracks lead to the town. For all I know, he could still be making his way through the forest; or perhaps he's lost, going round in circles, kicking trees and cursing his foolishness at trying to find his way to Nottingham in the dark.

Unhooking the skin from my belt, I take a long swig of water. Stiff and aching from the ride, I dismount.

"Time to find some food and water for you," I say, stroking my horse's warm neck.

The bay whinnies softly, nodding his noble head as if in agreement. I glance towards Nottingham, wondering what to do next, and see a dark figure, head down, walking towards the town gate – Guy.

Clumsily remounting my horse and whacking my boots into its flanks, I break from the cover of the trees, my eyes flicking between Guy and the town walls.

At the sound of pounding hooves, Guy whips his head up and turns around. As soon as I am near enough to recognise, he turns and starts racing towards the gatehouse.

I glance at the wooden parapet topping the gatehouse and see several guards crowding behind it.

"Guy! Stop!"

Guy lowers his head and runs faster, his long hair flying out behind him.

I kick my horse into a gallop, rapidly closing the gap between us.

As I gain on the town walls, I tear my eyes away from Guy long enough to see at least a dozen archers readying bows and arrows, and I wonder if Murdac's demand that I face him in a duel is nothing more than a lie, to get me to show myself so he can cut me down in a hail of ash and steel.

"Guy! You don't have to do this. The child is not mine. Do you hear me?"

Guy slows, and I breathe a sigh of relief as the first volley of archers' arrows wings its way harmlessly through the grey, drizzly skies, falling short of both Guy and myself.

Reining my horse to a walk, I call to Guy to make haste and climb up behind me so we can be away before the arrows come again.

"You lie," Guy shouts, turning briefly towards me and then resuming his quest for the town gate.

Angry voices erupt from the behind gatehouse, but I am not close enough to make out what they are saying.

A few yards short of the closed gate, Guy stops and raises his arms in surrender. The wooden gate swings slowly open. Keeping his arms raised, Guy walks towards it.

"It's the truth," I shout.

Guy keeps walking.

Moments later, several mailed men-at-arms burst through the open gate.

Squeezing my thighs against my horse's flanks, I ready my bow. Plucking an arrow from my quiver, I nock and loose it at one of the armed men. It misses, as does the next one. I cannot get a perfect line, firing from the back of a horse.

Giving the reins a savage tug, the bay whinnying in protest, I jump to the muddy ground, cursing as a sharp pain courses across my middle. Quickly nocking an arrow, I charge towards the gatehouse. If Allan were around, I can just imagine what he might have to say about this particular course of action.

"Guy, please listen to me."

I don't care what the men-at-arms think. I don't care about anything other than stopping Guy from going through that gate.

There are six armed men flanking Guy, three either side. At this distance, I might take down one or two before they decide to act, that's if, in the meantime, I don't get arrowed by one of the archers from up above.

I get closer and loose another arrow. It hits one of the men-at-arms in the leg and he backs away, swearing. I nock another arrow, expecting the archers on the wall to immediately start sending arrows in my direction. But, no orders are given and no arrows fly towards me. I glance up to see that the men-at-arms have lowered their bows and are simply standing, watching. I was wrong. Murdac does want me alive. He wants to face me, knight-to-knight, to avenge his brother and to have me die at his hands.

"Guy," I plead.

Guy says something to the nearest guard that I cannot hear. The man nods and Guy lowers his raised arms.

We are just a few feet apart, the men-at-arms curious, waiting to see what will happen next. Slowly, I push the nocked arrow back into my quiver and slide my bow onto my shoulder.

My reputation will soon be in tatters, if it isn't already. It seems to me I have nothing left to lose.

I reach out a hand, the one devoid of my ring. "Guy, you need to know that—"

"What?" he snarls. "What do I need to know? That the great Robin Hood has decided he would rather spend his days with me than with the woman who carries his flesh and blood?"

"Yes," I tell him. "I would rather spend my days with you, because the child is not mine and...because I love you."

Guy's eyes widen, one of the men-at-arms sniggers.

I know Guy's chances of escaping his guard are slim, especially as he has no weapon, but I'm sure he'd rather die fighting, next to me, than endure any of the alternatives that await him should he choose to walk through that gate.

"I know I should have told you before, but I—"

"No," Guy says, vehemently shaking his head. "No. You will say anything to save that precious king of yours."

"No, it's the truth. I—"

Guy slams an elbow into the sniggering guard. "You can shut your fucking mouth, or you'll find my fist in it."

The winded guard backs away as two of his companions unsheathe their swords and hold them to Guy's chest.

"You won't need them," Guy says, knocking the swords aside and turning towards the town.

"Don't," I implore.

"Go to hell, Robin."

Guy strides through the open gate, the men-at-arms closing around him as he does so.

I take a few faltering steps towards the gate and stop. Neither arrows, nor threats come my way. The last guard to follow Guy through the gate turns and beckons me to follow him. I am free to enter the town, it seems.

Shaking my head 'no thanks', I start to back away.

Murdac wants me to face him, unharmed, and fight a duel; but I'm not going to do that until I can warn the King and get Guy out, and I cannot do that without the help of my gang.

"You tell Murdac," I shout, "he has until sundown. You tell him Robin Hood will be back. And you also tell him, that if Locksley burns, or if he hurts Gisborne, I'll make Murdac wish he'd never been born. And that's not a threat. It's a promise."

I keep backing away, and when I am far enough away that I can no longer make out the helmeted face of the man-at-arms, the great wooden gate swings shut.

**to be continued...**


	29. When All is Said and Done

**Disclaimer: **original characters copyright BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**previously...**_

"_Don't," I implore._

"_Go to hell, Robin." _

_Guy strides through the open gate, the men-at-arms closing around him as he does so._

_I take a few faltering steps towards the gate and stop. Neither arrows, nor threats come my way. The last guard to follow Guy through the gate turns and beckons me to follow him. I am free to enter the town, it seems. _

_Shaking my head 'no thanks', I start to back away. _

_Murdac wants me to face him, unharmed, and fight a duel; but I am not going to do that until I can warn the King and get Guy out, and I cannot do that without the help of my gang. _

"_You tell Murdac," I shout, "he has until sundown. You tell him Robin Hood will be back. And you also tell him, that if Locksley burns, or if he hurts Gisborne, I'll make Murdac wish he'd never been born. And that's not a threat. It's a promise."_

_I keep backing away, and when I am far enough away that I can no longer make out the helmeted face of the man-at-arms, the great wooden gate swings shut._

* * *

**When All is Said and Done**

"Let me get this straight – you're not the father?"

I nod, and Much tuts in annoyance. He's trying to clean my blood-matted hair to see how deep the cut runs.

"Like I told you, Murdac's the father, not me."

"And Luke told you this?" Allan asks, pushing off the tree he's been lolling against. "Little Luke Scarlett?"

"Not so little now," I remind him. "And, yes," I say, remembering to keep my head still, "Luke told me."

"So," Allan says, "you go off with Guy to tell him it's all over between the two of you and you're going to play happy families with Rowena, and the next thing we know you come charging back into the camp telling us that according to Luke Scarlett, who just happens to be wandering around the forest in the middle of the night, the baby's not yours. Next, you'll be telling us there are fairies in the forest. I reckon that bump to the head has—"

"Allan!" John thumps the end of his staff on the ground. "Shut up."

"Pardon me for living I'm sure."

John turns to me. "Is it true?"

"Yes. Rowena decided to ride to Nottingham to find a doctor when one of the village girls was sick. Murdac's men caught her and took her back to the castle, and that was when Murdac raped her."

Much digs his fingernails into my wounded scalp, unaware he is hurting me. I let it pass. I know he cared for Rowena, and the thought of a man violating her in such a manner is a brutal reminder of similar atrocities we witnessed during the Crusades, atrocities we never speak of because I forbade it.

"And when did this happen?" John asks.

"Shortly before we returned to Locksley."

"Then why," Allan asks, "did she say the baby was yours?"

"She didn't."

"Sorry, you've lost me now."

"Do you remember when she came to the camp, just before she led us to the King's camp?"

Allan and John both nod. Much mumbles a quiet 'yes' and resumes dabbing at my injured head.

"She seemed unwell, and when we asked her if she was all right she told us there was sickness, in Clun."

"Winter ailments," John reminds us.

"I had a feeling there was more to it than that, only I couldn't put my finger on it. I'm afraid I was too caught up worrying about Guy, worrying what Christophe might do to him, to properly notice she had something weighing on her mind."

"So then what?" Allan asks.

"When Rowena and I were talking to Richard, she, unfortunately, chose that moment to be ill. Richard put two and two together, and so did I. I had no reason to believe the child could be anyone's other than mine.

"Which is why you proposed to her?"

"Yes."

Allan grins. "Crafty girl."

John elbows him in the ribs.

"What? I'm just saying."

"How," Much fumes, slapping the piece of cloth he's been tenderly pressing into my head into the nearby bowl of warm water, "can you be so, so...heartless?"

"Look, I'm not saying I blame her. Just that this isn't the first time she's pulled a trick. If you remember, she was masquerading as Robin's sister until she was tumbled by some of the villagers."

"And if _you _remember," Much retorts, "she decided to help those villagers, to bring them food and medicine, to do all the things that Marian used...that is to say..."

"It's all right," I say, reaching behind me and laying a placating hand on Much's arm.

"I need more water," Much mumbles, snatching up the bowl and heading towards the water barrel.

"Still, you've got to admit," Allan says, carefully moving out of reach of both John's staff and elbows, "that was clever of her. Think about it – she's got no home of her own, no monies, while you've got...well, not a whole heap of monies since you give most of them away, but lands at least, or you will have when the King pardons you."

"At the rate I'm going, I think Richard is as likely to slap me in irons as he is to pardon me."

"So, what did Guy have to say about it?" Allan asks.

"He doesn't know. He'd already gone before I ran into Luke."

"Ah, I guess that explains the bash on the head."

"Guy hit me, with a branch."

"Remind me to keep on his good side. Where is he anyway? Gone back to Locksley to lick his wounds?"

Much places the fresh water bowl by my side and stands between Allan and John, his blue eyes beseeching me to tell him what he wants to hear – what he's wanted to hear ever since that fateful day we found Guy, sick and feverish, in our forest camp.

I glance at the sky, brightening since this morning's drizzly rain. It is close to midday.

"Robin?" John knows I am keeping something from them.

I stand, rolling my shoulders and flexing my run and ride weary arms and legs.

"Guy has gone to Nottingham."

"Nottingham?" Allan echoes. "What for?"

"To tell everyone about the two of us. To ruin my good name."

"Good," Much says, shuffling closer to Allan. "I don't mean good that he's going to tell everyone about you-know-what, but good that he's gone. Because I'm not going to pretend that I'm not happy about it. I know you liked him, Robin, but—"

"Liked!" John thunders, rounding on Much.

"John, don't," I warn.

He turns back to me. "I'm sorry, Robin, truly I am."

Big, kind-hearted Little John. Even though he will never understand my dark and dangerous relationship with Guy, he has at least realised and accepted the depth of my feelings for the man.

"He'll never get in," Allan says, shaking his head. "Nottingham's closed for business. No one gets past the gate unless they either belong to Prince John's lot, or they've got wares worth having."

"Guy is not as stupid as you all seem to think," I say.

"Yeah, but he's not exactly subtle, is he?"

"Nevertheless, he's already in Nottingham."

"You saw him go in?" John asks.

"Yes. After I sent Luke back to Locksley, I ran to the camp to fetch a horse and then took off after Guy. I caught up with him outside the gatehouse."

"You spoke to him, told him about Rowena?"

"I tried to, but he wouldn't listen."

John gives Allan a 'don't you dare' look. Allan ignores it.

"Oh, _come _on. What's the chances of Robin running into someone in this ruddy great forest, in the middle of the night, who just happens to know Rowena's been telling porky pies?"

"Luke didn't know about Rowena and me, or about our proposed marriage. As far as he is concerned, Rowena decided to keep the father's identity a secret out of shame."

"Still, it was a bit of a coincidence that—"

"I have to get Guy out," I say, cutting Allan off. "Both the King and our camp are in danger if he decides to play nasty."

"I'm not being funny, Robin, but if it weren't for Guy, the King would be happily cosied up in his tent with hardly a care in the world, you'd have considerably less cuts and bruises, and Much would stop mooching around the camp with a face like a wet weekend."

"If it weren't for Guy, _Allan_," I snap, "I would be dead, nothing more than a pile of sea-washed bones."

Allan looks at the ground, contrite, as does Much. They are both fully aware that Guy saved my life, that if it had not been for his quick reactions and dogged determination I would surely have drowned.

"I'm sorry. None of this is your fault. But I still have to go to Nottingham."

"Guy may have already ratted on us, and the King, have you thought of that?" Allan asks.

"I know."

I think of my bed – our bed – back in Locksley. I wish I were lying there now, pressing into Guy, his warm breaths on my skin, his long legs entangled with mine.

"There is something else," I say, running a hand through my damp hair.

"I _knew _you were going to say that," Much says, screwing up his face.

"When I ran into Luke, it was not by accident. He had a message for me, from Murdac."

"Why," Allan says, "have I got the feeling this is not an invite to join him for scones and ale and a game of dice?"

"Murdac wants us to meet, knight-to-knight. He wants me to fight him in a duel."

"You mean as in swords?" Much asks.

"No, feather dusters," Allan quips. "What do you think?"

"But why?"

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" Allan says. "Robin killed Murdac's brother."

"Yes, but why does he want to fight you?" Much asks, turning to me. "Why not just hunt you down and kill you?"

"Much, my friend, Murdac had all winter to catch me, to take his revenge. But apart from that solitary incident in the forest, when his men caught Guy and me together, he has left us alone. Why do you think that is?"

"Because we're not worth the trouble?" Much ventures.

"Maybe, but Luke told me there were rumours that Murdac had been ill, and I think he was waiting until he was completely well before facing me in a one-on-one fight."

"You can't know that."

"It's the only explanation."

"Even so, that still doesn't mean this isn't just a trick to get you to walk into Nottingham of your own free will."

"I know, but there were enough archers on that gate for one of them to stick an arrow in me. Someone gave them the order to stand down. An order like that could only have come from Murdac, or his master-at-arms."

"You didn't mention no archers," Allan says, clearly puzzled. "Are we missing something here?"

"I'm sorry, I should have explained."

I quickly tell the gang about Murdac's threat and the reception awaiting Guy and myself as we neared Nottingham.

"And Murdac will burn Locksley if you don't fight him?" John asks.

I nod, weary to the bone, wondering if I have enough energy to put one foot in front of the other let alone wield a sword against a vengeful knight who wants my head on a platter.

"I don't have a choice, John. If I don't show my face, Locksley will suffer."

"So, move the villagers out," Allan suggests.

"No. Locksley is their home. It's all they've got. I will not see it destroyed."

"Then let the King deal with Murdac. You're in no fit state to—"

"No. I cannot wait for Richard. Murdac has given me until sundown – today."

Much looks skywards, as do Allan and John.

"I'm sorry, Much," I say, "but I have to go. It's the only way."

"No, you can't. You can't keep sacrificing yourself for other people. I won't let you. I'll...I'll rope you to a tree, or...or hit you on the head...well, maybe not the head because I've just cleaned it up, but either way I'll—"

"Much, please."

"Er...not wanting to be the harbinger of doom or anything," Allan interrupts, "but what if you don't win this duel, Robin? What then? Surely, there's nothing to stop Murdac from burning Locksley just for the heck of it. He sounds like a nasty piece of work."

"I would still go to Nottingham whether or not Murdac had made this demand of me."

"Because of Guy?" John says.

"I can't leave things standing the way they are."

"And what will you do about Rowena?"

"I will tell her that I cannot marry her, but that I will help her any way I can, and if I...when I go to Nottingham, if anything should happen to me..."

"We'll see she's looked after," John finishes. "I promise."

I nod my thanks, look towards Much's cooking pit. "I think it might help if I had something to eat?"

Pleased to find something useful to do, if only to keep from dwelling on what might happen in Nottingham, Much hurriedly tends the fire and starts chucking bits and pieces in a large frying pan while tunelessly singing a song we've all heard a hundred times before. None of us is about to tell him to shut up.

"What do you want us to do?" John asks.

"We need to warn the King that he and his men might be in danger, get him to move his camp, or at least make ready for attack. Much can do that."

I glance at Much. He is making a show of chasing food around the hot pan with an iron poker, pretending he hasn't heard me.

"Allan, I want you to get into Nottingham. I don't care how you do it. I want you to find out where Guy is, and, if he is a prisoner in the castle, I want you to find out if he's in the dungeons or elsewhere. I also want to know if Murdac has as many men as we are led to believe."

"Er...in case it's escaped your notice, we've been tramping through the forest all night looking for you."

"Well, you'll just have to tramp a bit longer then, won't you."

Allan and John exchange pointed glances.

"Why don't we eat first," John says, "and then decide what's to be done. You're always telling us it's best to think before rushing into anything."

"I'm sorry, and you're right," I concede.

Much declares the food ready and we make for the fallen log where we do most of our eating.

When Much hands us the burnt offerings I expect Allan to make some sarcastic remark, but he wordlessly accepts his bowl and, with a slight grimace, starts shovelling the unrecognisable meat into his mouth. John does likewise.

"You'll need your strength," Much says quietly, seating himself beside me and lightly touching my sword arm.

I force the charred meat into my mouth and eat.

For a short while, there is nothing but the sound of munching and the occasional smack of a bone tossed into the trees. Allan breaks the near silence by rubbing his stomach with excessive enthusiasm, declaring he is too full for seconds. Lips pressed tightly together, Much snatches up Allan's empty bowl and stomps back to the fire.

Normally, I would either chastise Allan for such behaviour, or smile along with him. Today, I do neither.

"Right, Nottingham," Allan says, rinsing his mouth with a swig of water and smacking his hands together. "I was thinking I could blag my way past the gatehouse, snag a guard's uniform and then get into the castle through the servants' tunnel, the one in the old brewhouse yard, next to the Trip."

"Entering the castle will be risky," I tell him. "Even disguised as one of Murdac's men, you'll have a hard time explaining yourself if you're caught somewhere you shouldn't be. As to the gatehouse, I'm not sure even your blagging skills will fool the current gatekeepers."

"What about the west gate?" John asks.

"Blocked up," Allan says. "I heard Murdac wants to keep tracks on everyone entering and exiting Nottingham and having only one way in and out makes that entirely possible. Nah, the only way in is through the front door. Come on, Robin. When have I not been able to lie my way in and out of things?"

"I can think of a few times, actually."

"What about Guy's tunnel?" John asks.

I smile. I'd forgotten about that.

"Guy said the tunnel comes out directly into the Great Hall."

"And how's that any better than my way?" Allan asks. "I'll still end up in the castle, won't I?"

"Not necessarily," I tell him. "When Guy and I were on our way to investigate the entrance to the tunnel, just before Christophe...just before...sorry."

I hate dredging up that awful day, the day Guy ended up lying in the snow, naked and bleeding, fearing for his life.

"When you're ready," John says.

Taking a deep breath, I continue. "Guy told me that there is another exit, as well as the one that comes out in the Great Hall. The exit is outside the castle itself and comes out somewhere inside the sheriff's stables. We know the tunnel's entrance is in a derelict churchyard, well out of sight of the town walls. At least this way you can avoid chancing your arm at the gatehouse."

"It's not my arm I'm worried about," Allan mutters. "Anyway, what am I going to do if I find that exit has been discovered and blocked up?"

"Then you'll just have to sneak into the Great Hall," I tell him, "and pretend to be a servant or something."

"I think I liked my idea of pretending to be a guard better. On the other hand, the life expectancy of a castle guard isn't much longer than a gnat's, so maybe...hang on, what if that exit is blocked as well?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Allan, just use your initiative."

Allan takes a couple of steps backwards, hands raised. "Sorry I spoke."

"No, I'm sorry for snapping at you." A thought occurs. "If you do end up in the castle, you should be able to sneak around without too much trouble. Think about it – I'll be fighting Murdac. Who in the castle is not going to want to watch Robin Hood battle it out with the Sheriff of Nottingham?"

I realise how ridiculous I must sound, talking as though Robin Hood is someone separate from the battered, heartsore man standing in front of his friends.

"Not being funny, but what's to say this Murdac fellow isn't some giant of a man? Look at you, bashed about more than a cabbage in a wagon, fast running out of belt-holes to keep your trousers up."

"Allan, Murdac's brother was no hulk, and, if I recall correctly, he was slow and clumsy, which is why you and Rowena escaped relatively unscathed and why I was able to..." I recall the grisly scene of the headless guard. "Take his life."

"Yeah, but just because the brother was nothing impressive, that don't mean Murdac ain't."

"I think if Murdac were remarkable in any way, we'd have heard of it by now. He's just a man, same as you and me, and men can be killed."

"My whole point, Robin."

"We've talked long enough," I say, glancing at the sky.

When Much opens his mouth, I expect further protest, anything to delay my going to Nottingham. Instead, he asks, "Do I really have to go to the King's camp? Can't John go?"

"No, I want John to go to Locksley, in case things don't go to plan."

Much's light blue eyes fill with tears when he realises what the words 'don't go to plan' might mean, for me at least.

"Much." I lay my hand on his shoulder. "It has to be you. You were in the King's private guard. He trusts you, and he'll believe you."

Much nods, blinks rapidly. He knows that nothing he can say will make me change my mind about going to Nottingham. "What shall I tell him?"

"Tell Richard there is a risk of his whereabouts becoming common knowledge, that he and his men might be in danger and should take every precaution."

"You don't want me to tell him about Guy, or Murdac?"

"No."

"You still think you can win Guy back, don't you? That the King might pardon him if Guy stands by you, that you and he can go and live happily ever after, in Locksley?"

"I don't think there will be a happily ever after, for me, or for Guy."

Much shakes his head. "I can't lie to the King of England, Robin."

"It isn't lying."

"And it isn't telling the truth either," Much retorts.

I sigh. "Say what you will then. As long as you make Richard understand that he may not be safe."

"Very well," Much says. "I will go to the King's camp. But if, while I am gone, you die, then you should know that I, too, will die...of a broken heart."

"Then I shall do my best not to come to any harm," I smile. "Now, I must make ready."

With that, I march purposefully towards our sleeping area in search of extra arrows and Guy's sword. I do not know if either will be of any use once I step foot inside the castle, but there is no point in not arming myself to the hilt. If I had my hauberk to hand, I would wear it, but it is back in Locksley, locked away in a chest. I had put it in there in the hope I would never need it again.

It does not surprise me to hear Much following in my wake.

Rather than immediately seeking out the arrows and sword, I sit on my narrow bed.

Much sits beside me. He says, "If Guy were not in Nottingham, if you and he were still...together, would you still be going to fight Murdac, with no regard for your own life?"

"If Guy were here, Much, he would not let me go."

"Then him and me would agree on something for once."

"Guy thinks I am marrying Rowena to escape our relationship in favour of something more...normal. He is angry, will likely lash out at the slightest provocation. I cannot leave him to the mercy of Murdac, or his men."

"But you'll leave me?"

"You are stronger than he is."

Much lightly touches my right hand.

"You're not wearing your ring."

"I took it off."

"Oh?"

"It felt dishonest. I was dishonest. I have to make things right between us."

"And going to Nottingham and getting yourself killed is making things right, is it?"

"I have to make peace with Guy, even if it's the last thing I ever do. I have to tell him...make him understand..."

On impulse, I snatch up Much's hand, curl my fingers tightly around his. His hand is warm, just like Guy's hands.

We sit in silence, staring at the ground. Much is wearing his multi-coloured knitted jumper, the one with the enormous holes. I never did ask him where he got it. His free hand fiddles with a loose thread. My throat tightens. He will be lost without me.

A gust of wind rushes through the branches covering the innermost part of our camp, and I recall the boat we took out of Acre, the creak and groan of the timbers, the tiny, airless cabin, the straw covering the floor and the spider under my boot. I recall the throaty moans and grunts of the men in the next-door cabin and Much pulling me into his chest so I might let go my grief.

Much looks down at our clasped hands, brings his free hand up to wipe his face.

"Much, I'm not dead yet," I tell him, which is probably a mistake as he starts to cry in earnest.

Letting go of his hand, I turn towards him and pull him into my chest.

"I promise you," I tell him, "I will do everything in my power to get through this thing. Can't let Richard have all the glory now, can I?"

"Promise?" he sniffs.

"I promise."

Gently, I ease him from my arms, gather up the extra arrows and Guy's sword, which are resting under my bed, and walk away.

"Deer tonight," Much calls.

"Make sure you save me a piece," I call back.

With a silent nod towards John and Allan, both of whom are saddling up in preparation of leaving the camp themselves, I mount the bay and head off in the direction of Nottingham.

**to be continued...**


	30. Come What May

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to the BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

_Much looks down at our clasped hands, brings his free hand up to wipe his face._

"_Much, I'm not dead yet," I tell him, which is probably a mistake as he starts to cry in earnest._

_Letting go of his hand, I turn towards him and pull him into my chest. _

"_I promise you," I tell him, "I will do everything in my power to get through this thing. Can't let Richard have all the glory now, can I?"_

"_Promise?" he sniffs. _

"_I promise."_

_Gently, I ease him from my arms, gather up the extra arrows and Guy's sword, which are resting under my bed, and walk away. _

"_Deer tonight," Much calls._

"_Make sure you save me a piece," I call back._

_With a silent nod towards John and Allan, both of whom are saddling up in preparation of leaving the camp themselves, I mount the bay and head off in the direction of Nottingham._

* * *

**Come What May**

"Do it," Guy shouts.

In the shadowy courtyard of Nottingham Castle, the March sun already well below the battlements, we had voiced an agreement, noble-born men that we are, on the rules of our fight and what the victor stands to gain.

I had been right about Murdac, he is no giant of a man, and, although it's obvious he had once been a knight with a quick eye and an equally quick sword arm, recent years spent in relative idleness, commanding other men to do his bidding, have taken their toll on both his midriff and his ease of movement.

"Yes, do it," Ralph Murdac, the new Sheriff of Nottingham, growls. The fingernails of his sword hand claw the hard-packed earth, even though his weapon lies out of reach since I knocked it from his hand. "Take my life, as we agreed."

Murdac had drawn first blood, cutting my upper right arm, adding a new injury to the old. I foul-mouthed my God, nearly dropped my sword, feared my death was only moments away.

"Robin," Guy cried, from somewhere towards the main castle steps.

Hearing him call my name pumped fresh blood into my wearied limbs, my aching body, gave me resolve. A few more parries and clashes of steel and I saw my chance, saw what many a man would not: Murdac slightly favouring his left leg – an old injury perhaps, or the result of whatever illness he had recently suffered. It was enough for me, and now Murdac is the one facing death, the sole of my boot grinding into his chest, the tip of my sword pressing into his fleshy neck.

We had agreed – as we lifted our shirts to reveal no hidden cuirass, no concealed daggers, as we showed our swords and declared them equal enough – that this duel would end only when one of us lies dead. We had agreed that Murdac's death would secure Guy's release and guarantee his and my safe passage out of Nottingham, as well as the safety of Locksley, and that my death would result in the forfeit of my house and lands and the hanging of my bedmate, Guy of Gisborne.

Blood from my cut arm trickles down the back of my sword hand, runs the length of my blade and pools in the hollow of Murdac's throat. His close-set, black-brown eyes stare at me boldly, but there is fear in his body; I can feel him trembling beneath my boot.

"You heard our words," I direct at the men assembled in the courtyard, "and you are honour-bound to observe them. When this man lies dead, Gisborne and I go free." No one speaks, though one or two of the men-at-arms incline their heads. "I will be quick," I tell Murdac.

A foul odour, neither blood nor sweat, fills my nostrils – a stench I recognise from the bloody slaughter in the Holy Land. It is the body's shameful betrayal when a man knows he is but a heartbeat from entering Heaven or Hell.

I ready my sword, preparing to sever the life-giving cords in Murdac's neck. He flinches, squeezes his eyes shut.

"No!" An anguished cry from Murdac's second – a skinny man, with shoulder-length blond hair and a mouthful of rotting teeth.

I hesitate, not because of the man's outcry, but because of a memory, a vision of Guy lying on the forest floor, my blade held to his throat.

"I am going to kill you," I had said.

Little John had protested: "Killing we do not do." And Will: "He's right. At least that's what you taught us."

_I'm Robin Hood – remember?_

"No one need die here today," I say, my sword still hovering above Murdac's bobbing throat.

Murdac's eyes flicker open, surprise quickly turning to hope. A thin, knowing smile tugs at his winter-cracked lips.

Guy swears, cries out as though in pain. I imagine him struggling against his guards, but dare not take my eyes off Murdac.

"Then what," Murdac says, licking his lips, "do you propose? That we say you have won, and I let you and him walk freely from the castle?"

"That's the general idea," I say.

I had seen, out the tail of my eye, the blond master-at-arms' less than subtle unsheathing of his sword. It is enough to convince me that the softly spoken words that passed between him and Murdac, as he straightened Murdac's shirtfront and fussed with its lacings, were not words of encouragement, but words of what he should do should Murdac find himself at the losing end of the fight.

I whirl round. The toe of my boot crunches into the man's sword hand. Cursing, he drops his weapon. Without missing a beat, I press the tip of my sword to Murdac's chest.

"Get up, or you die here, now. As the victor I have the right to do what I wish with your body, and I can assure you, you will be laid out in the clothes that you wear and your men shall know of the Sheriff of Nottingham's weak stomach for death."

Murdac flicks his eyes past my arm.

"So much as move a muscle, and he dies," I warn. "You, too." I sense the blond master-at-arms stepping back a pace.

Murdac groans, slowly sits. "You cannot escape, Hood," he says, with no small amount of satisfaction. "Whether you die within these walls, or outside them, or in your humble village of Locksley – you will die."

"I fully expect to," I tell him, "but not today. Stand. Now!"

As Murdac staggers to his feet, I quickly skirt round him and press the tip of my sword to his exposed neck. Awkwardly, I grasp a handful of Murdac's shirt with my free hand – a preventative measure in case he decides to chance his arm and make a dash for freedom.

"Now what?" he asks.

I glance at his backside, at his soiled breeches. I will not take pity on him, not after what he did to Rowena.

"Now, you are I are going to take a walk. But first, you will order your men to let Gisborne go."

I look across the courtyard. Guy is midway down the castle steps, standing between two guards, arms shackled behind his back. I cannot tell if his legs are free or not.

"And if I don't?" Murdac asks.

"Then I will kill you."

"I don't believe you. The stories my men bring back from the tavern have proved correct. Robin Hood has lost his taste for blood, as well as his taste for females."

My sword hand twitches. "You forget your brother," I remind him. "Order your men to release Gisborne, or I swear to you the only thing you will taste is the blood in your mouth as you bite through your tongue when my sword parts your head from your neck."

"I am ready for my death, will accept it, if it means the end of you," Murdac says.

I do not need to see his face to know that Murdac has regained the composure he had as I rode into the castle courtyard and declared myself ready to face him in a one-on-one fight.

_Damn. _

The portcullis is behind me, lowered. I don't stand a chance, Guy even less.

"Kill him, Robin, and be done with it," Guy shouts. "We're done for anyway."

I think of Much, falling over his words as he kneels before King Richard; Allan, trying to find a way into Nottingham; John, assuring the people of Locksley that all with be well, that Robin Hood will prevail.

Not so long ago – Guy's sword-tip pressing into the King's broad back, Christophe's dagger digging into my side – I told Richard that I believe there is a way out of any tight spot. I think he would be intrigued to see how I am going to get out of this particular one.

"Hear this," I tell the hushed courtyard. Slowly, I back towards the portcullis, still clutching Murdac's shirt, pulling him with me. "King Richard is on these shores. He camps not many miles from Nottingham, his army with him. They come to retake Nottingham Castle, peaceably if possible, by force if necessary."

If Richard wants his castle back, and if he wants me to help him accomplish it, then by God I'm going to use him to get Guy and me out of here, alive.

The men-at-arms shuffle their feet, bend towards their neighbour's ear to whisper their thoughts at my unexpected revelation.

"King Richard will spare the life of any man here willing to surrender arms; he will ask nothing more than a pledge of coin and an oath to serve under his banner, the rightful King of England."

The whispers become louder.

"He is lying," Murdac shouts.

"It is no lie," Guy retorts, stumbling a short way down the steps, only to be grabbed by his guards. "The Lionheart is here. I have seen him with my own eyes. Robin Hood speaks the truth."

A number of men-at-arms turn their heads towards Guy, a handful nodding at one another. I suspect some of them are Vaisey's old guards, those that chose to stay on in the castle and serve under Murdac. They turn their attention back to me, attentive.

"So," I say, "you have a choice. Show yourselves to be more honourable men than your sheriff here and allow Sir Guy and myself safe passage out of Nottingham, whereupon I will let this man live, either to lead you into battle, or to arrange terms of surrender with King Richard. Or, I kill him, now, following which you will try and doubtless succeed in killing me, because you are many, and I am one man with nothing but a sword to defend myself."

The men-at-arms glance at one another; some remove their helmets, wanting to see each other's faces plainly, to better judge what their comrades think of my words.

The skinny blond retrieves his dropped sword, sheaths it. Some of the assembled men-at-arms – those who drew their weapons as I dragged Murdac towards the gate – do likewise. It is clear they are considering King Richard's more than generous terms of surrender, that they are thinking of their own lives, of the homes, wives and ladyloves they have not seen for many months and of the long winter spent defending a castle for a would-be monarch who fled to France at the first sign of trouble. Certainly, none of them is keen to take on the role of the man who must speak for the castle, who must face the mighty Lionheart.

"Open the portcullis," the Sheriff's deputy barks at the men guarding the castle gateway; and to me, "You will let him go?"

"Not until Gisborne is unshackled and stands at my side."

The blonde-haired master-at-arms regards Murdac, and, after a moment's hesitation, Murdac gives the order to have Guy released. Behind me, I hear the portcullis's clink and clank as it rises.

Freed from his irons, Guy makes his way towards me, a man-at-arms on either side of him.

"Step back," I tell Guy's gaolers.

Murdac nods, and the men slowly back away.

Guy rubs his reddened wrists and moves to stand beside me. As far as I can tell, he is unharmed – his leathers a little dusty but intact, his easy movement suggesting no bodily tortures, his face bearing no sign of ill-treatment. All he needs is a comb through his hair and he'd be the Guy I know and love. Relief floods through me.

"Now," I say to Murdac, "we are going to make our way through the gateway, and when we are clear of the castle, you will order your men to drop the portcullis. Then, I will let you go."

"Do you think me a fool?" Murdac hisses. "The moment they drop the portcullis you will kill me."

"If you don't give them the order," I tell him, "then I will kill you. Trust me, I am fast enough to escape this courtyard long before that portcullis reaches the ground." I dig my blade further into Murdac's neck, leaking blood this time.

"He is fast enough," Guy confirms, doubtless thinking of the many times I had narrowly escaped impalement by the iron-spiked barricade.

"Very well," Murdac says. Grudgingly, he tells the men-at-arms to drop the portcullis once we are beyond the castle courtyard.

"Ready?" I ask Guy.

"Ready," he replies.

Cautiously, we step backwards, under the raised portcullis, until we are several paces clear of the castle gate. Still clutching Murdac's shirt, the steely tip of my blade pressing into his sweaty, thinly bleeding neck, we watch the steady descent of the great iron gate.

"Consider yourself fortunate it is me and not Gisborne here who is holding the sword," I tell Murdac, shoving him forward with enough force that he stumbles and falls, landing face down in the horse-churned mud in front of the castle gate.

I grab Guy's arm. "Come on."

Turning our backs on the castle, we break into a run, the clanking of the rising portcullis and the barked commands of the shamed and enraged Murdac warning us that we are still far from safe.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Guy calls, as we skirt past the physician's house and charge down an adjoining alleyway.

"The Sheriff's stables," I tell him, ducking behind a wall of drying sheets. "The other exit from your tunnel, remember?"

"Yes, but this is not the way—"

"Not now," I say, cutting him off. Shoving aside a handful of rush mats, I retrieve Guy's broadsword, my arrow-stuffed quiver and my precious bow. "Here," I say, handing Guy both his sword and my bow. Poking my head around the sheets, and finding no sign of our pursuers, I lead Guy in the direction of the stables, buckling on my quiver as I run.

"You're a fool, Robin," Guy says, passing my bow into my outstretched hand. "You should have killed the bastard while you had the chance."

"Murdac had no intention of letting you go, or allowing me to live, you saw that. Holding him hostage was the only way I had of getting us out of there."

"And mentioning the King."

"And that, yes."

Guy turns fearful eyes towards mine. I hear it too, the barking and yapping of dogs – castle dogs. Dogs that will tear us to pieces if they catch us.

"I'm sorry," I say, grabbing Guy's arm and pulling him down yet another narrow passageway.

"No, it's my fault that—"

"Shush," I say, a finger to my lips.

I sneak a quick look around the corner of the Trip Inn. There are at least a dozen men-at-arms heading our way. The dogs' barks are getting louder.

"The town gate?" Guy whispers.

I shake my head. "Impossible."

Unsheathing his sword, Guy says, "I guess we always knew our time was going to run out sooner or later."

Wincing, I whip an arrow from my quiver and quickly nock it. My right shirtsleeve is soaked with blood.

Guy glances at my raised bow and smiles. His faith in my ability brings tears to my eyes – there must be well over a hundred armed men in that castle.

"Robin." A voice, from above our heads. I look up. Allan is leaning out of a first floor window.

"Allan, what the—"

"Inside," Allan hisses, inclining his head towards the front door and then disappearing.

"Don't be stupid, we'll—"

Guy gets no further as, gripping his leather doublet, I yank him into the poorly lit, ale-fumed inn.

With a curt nod at the Trip's owners – a man and a woman whose names I should know but don't – Allan says, "This way."

I'm half-expecting him to lead us to a back door; the Sheriff's stables are only a short distance away. Instead, he turns down a dark passageway and opens a wide door that I recall leads to the Trip's cellars.

"Allan, we'll be trapped if—"

"Trust me," Allan says.

The thudding of heavy boots on the Trip's ale-stained earthen floor and the snarling of dogs straining at their leashes leave us little option but to follow Allan into the gloomy, barrel-filled cellar.

"This is madness," Guy says. "This is the first place they'll look."

Allan shoves a hand down his shirtfront, produces a set of wooden keys dangling from a thin leather strap looped around his neck.

"Oh, and locking the door is going to keep them out, is it?" Guy says.

"Not locking, unlocking."

At the sound of the cellar door opening, Guy whips round, sword raised. I shake my head and raise my hands in surrender.

"It's over, Guy," I say, softly.

"Oh, dear Lord," a female voice says. "You're hurt."

Dropping my upraised arms, I swivel round. The alehouse owner's wife is staring, slack-jawed, at the sight of a bloodied and battered Robin Hood.

"He'll live," Allan says roughly. "Just do what I told you, all right?"

The woman meekly nods.

Allan tips and rolls a couple of ale barrels out of his way and pushes aside a faded wall hanging. Behind it is a narrow door, less than chest height.

"Tunnel," Allan explains, pushing one of the keys into the lock and opening the door.

I can hear the Trip's owner – Eustace, I now recall – trading angry words with a man-at-arms, something about them already having taken most of the tavern's ale and that they can't have any more.

"Quick, inside," Allan says.

Crouching, we squeeze through the small door and Allan swiftly re-locks it. I hear the scraping of barrels and guess that the woman is hiding the evidence of our escape route.

I turn to face Allan.

"What?" he shrugs. "You're not the only one around here who can come up with a decent escape plan."

Without waiting for my retort, Allan grabs a flaming torch wedged in a gouge in the damp sandstone wall and starts walking down the tunnel.

"They'll give us away," Guy says, nodding towards the locked door.

"No, they won't," Allan calls, over his shoulder. "I'm a regular customer, they know me. Besides, I bought their silence."

"How?" Guy asks, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the tunnel's low ceiling.

"Told them you'd kill their children if they breathe a word of our whereabouts."

"I do not kill children."

"Yeah, well they're not to know that, are they?"

Eager to deflect yet another one of Guy and Allan's petty arguments, I say, "This tunnel leads to the castle, doesn't it?"

"Christ's blood," Guy snaps. "We've just come from the castle." He rises to full height, smacks his head on the tunnel's roof. "Fuck!"

"Don't worry," Allan soothes. "We're not going to the castle."

"I'm sure Allan knows what he's doing," I say, laying a gentling hand on Guy's arm.

"He'd better. One day in those castle dungeons is enough for me."

"Go on." I motion Allan to keep walking.

When Guy makes to follow, I grasp a handful of leather sleeve.

"What?" he snarls, rubbing his bashed head with his free hand.

"I haven't had the chance to ask what happened to you after I...after I left you."

"Nothing happened, other than that shit of a sheriff locking me in the dungeons. I guess he thought I might prove useful in convincing you to show your face."

"Which I did."

"Yes, to save your precious Locksley." He tugs his arm from my grip.

"Is that what you believe?"

"Why else would you take such a stupid risk?"

Allan rounds a bend and, without the torch's flickering light, we are plunged into darkness.

"We should keep moving," I say.

"Fine."

Guy moves away, and my outstretched arm – the one that would draw him close so I might easier speak what is in my heart – falls into empty space.

Inwardly cursing, I take off after Allan and Guy.

After a few more twists and turns, we reach a dead end, which turns out not to be a dead end at all, but another locked door.

"Let me guess," I say to Allan. "You have a key?"

"You're catching on," Allan grins, waggling the key-threaded leather strap at me.

Allan unlocks and opens the door and we step into what appears to be another cellar. Closer inspection, however, proves that, unlike the one leading off the Trip, this one is unused.

"Allan?"

"Don't you get it, Robin? This is the old cellar, the one under the brewhouse yard. The one they used before they built the new buttery inside the castle walls."

"So it's not used anymore?"

"Nah, hasn't been used in ages. Tom and I used to...well, it don't matter now. The important thing is, no one knows or remembers it's here, apart from the Trip's owners and, like I said, they ain't saying nothing."

"And what," Guy asks, "are we supposed to do now? Stay here until they're fed up looking for us and then calmly make our way out of Nottingham?"

"We wait," Allan says.

"Wait for what?" I ask.

"Our knights in shining armour, or rather, I should say, our nuns in shining armour."

"Nuns?" Guy queries.

"I can explain."

Allan lights a second torch with the first, giving us extra light.

Glad to rest my aching legs, I sit on an upturned barrel.

"So explain," I say, "because right now I can't help but think that any time soon armed men are going to be dropping in on us." I nod at the rough sandstone-hewn ceiling. "If I'm not mistaken, that's the hatchway leading to the old brew-yard."

"Great," Guy mutters.

"It's all right," Allan grins. "Someone's plonked the town stocks on top of it."

"What about the entrance from the castle?" I ask, indicating the door on the far side of the cellar.

"Long forgotten," Allan says. "When I was working with Gis...I mean, the last time I was in the castle, I went and had a look for it. A tapestry is covering it and there's a ruddy great chest in front of that."

"That would be when you were advising the Sheriff of Robin's ways in and out of the castle, would it?" Guy says.

"I was stuck, all right. I did what I did, no thanks to you."

"Why didn't you tell the Sheriff about this tunnel?" Guy asks, taking a step towards Allan, fists clenched.

"Look, I had to keep one escape route secret, just in case I ever needed it."

"Allan," I interrupt. "Just tell us what you have in mind."

Relieved he has my trust at least, Allan continues. "Well, obviously going out the main gate is impossible. It's swarming with castle guards."

"So how did you get into Nottingham?" Guy asks. "Catapult? Dressed as a washerwoman? Extra large hood?"

Allan grins. "I got in with the nuns."

"They would be the nuns in shining armour, would they?" I ask.

"That's right. You know me, Robin, I'm good with nuns. When I left the camp, I went to the old churchyard, thought I'd try getting in through Guy's tunnel." Allan glances between Guy and me. "I'd make a joke about that, but I guess now is not the time."

"No," I say sternly. "Now is not the time. Go on."

"It was a no go. Caved in."

"Deliberately?"

"No idea, but it would take me from now till Christmas to dig my way through all the fallen rocks and stuff. Anyway, being in the churchyard got me thinking about the nuns at Kirklees."

"And?"

"So I was thinking: who, other than someone with enough gold and what not to bribe their way in, would the castle guards let through that gate?"

"Religious persons," I supply. "Nuns, in this case."

"Precisely," Allan says.

"You could never pass for a nun," Guy points out.

"Didn't have to. The nuns had a cart with a secret compartment underneath, smuggled me in in that. They went off to the castle to offer Murdac and his men a bit of religious succour, and I went off to do a bit of snooping."

"Why would nuns have carts with secret compartments underneath?" Guy asks.

"Well, Robin once had to—"

"And that's when you came up with this idea?" I hastily interrupt, gesturing at the dusty, cobwebbed barrels. Recounting some of my earlier exploits in thievery can wait; I'm sure Guy would prefer to forget the many times I managed to outwit both him and Vaisey.

"That's right," Allan says. "I figured if you got out the castle alive, you'd need a hiding place, at least until you're ready to break out of Nottingham itself."

"Wouldn't it be better to stay here?" Guy suggests. "Surely the King and his army will be here any day now?"

"Guy, whatever I may think of Richard, I am not about to go back on my word. I promised him I would be by his side when he takes the castle and that's what I intend to do. I'm the best archer in England and if the King, God forbid, should take an arrow, or suffer a sword's blow without me at least trying to prevent it, it will weigh on me for the rest of my days."

Allan gives Guy an 'I told you so' look, says, "Getting out of Nottingham is where the nuns come in. Tomorrow morning, they're going back to the abbey, and that's when we make our escape."

"Hidden in their cart?" Guy says.

"I admit it'll be a squeeze, but I reckon we can do it. One of sister's is going to pretend to be ill, so I doubt the gatekeepers will bother doing much of an inspection."

"Of all the idiotic, ridiculous," Guy begins.

"We've done the cart thing before," Allan cuts in, "and it always worked. Besides, doing it this way means we get a bit of kip before the whole running, fighting, avoiding capture thing starts up again."

He's looking at me when he says this. I know what he's thinking. Right now, I don't look as if I could blow my own nose, let alone make some daring, possibly dangerous, escape from a town under lock and key.

"That bit at least makes sense," Guy says. Kneeling in front of me, he touches my injured arm. "Let me see."

"It's not deep."

"Even so, it still needs tending."

"Here." Allan passes Guy a water skin.

"Do you have any more?" I ask, realising I haven't drunk since I ate Much's charred excuse for a meal earlier today.

"Sorry, no. There wasn't time."

"I'll wet some cloth and clean you up that way," Guy says, "so you can drink." He turns to Allan. "Give me your shirt."

"Hang on. It's enough to freeze your bollocks off in here, and—"

"Give me," Guy scowls, "your shirt, or your bollocks are not all you will lose."

Muttering, Allan slips off his jerkin and pulls his shirt over his head. He hands it to Guy.

"You'll have to take your shirt off, too," Guy says to me.

Painfully, I ease my dirty, bloodstained shirt over my head.

Guy sucks in a breath. My body is a mass of bruises, my stitched stomach red-raw, my slashed arm streaked with blood.

"Bleeding hell," Allan exclaims. "You look like you've just walked off a battlefield."

"I feel like it," I tell him.

"Is there anything I can do?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "You can see if any of these butts still have ale in them."

"Nah, they're all empty. I already checked."

"Well, check again," I say, nodding towards Guy, intent on tearing one of the sleeves off Allan's shirt.

"I'm sure that...oh, right," Allan says, glancing between Guy and me, understanding dawning.

Walking to the far side of the cellar, Allan begins tapping barrels in the pretence of looking for ale.

Guy finishes cleaning my cut arm and binds it with Allan's ripped shirt. "It's deep, but I think this will stem the bleeding well enough."

"Thank you."

Standing, Guy unbuckles his doublet. "I know it's not really your colour," he smiles, "but it'll be better than putting that bloody shirt back on. Warmer, too."

He holds the leather doublet behind my back and I ease my painful right arm into the sleeve, followed by my left.

"Here, let me." Crouching in front of me, Guy starts fastening the embossed, silver buckles.

If we were back in Locksley, I'd tell him not to fuss, even though I know it pleases him to do things for me, however inconsequential. But here, now, when we have just come so close to losing one another, I sit quietly. The smell of leather, of him, and the care he has for me, hits me with more force than any striking blade or piercing arrow.

"You are in pain?" he says.

I shake my head, my throat too tight to manage the flippant remark about black leather doing nothing for my image as someone who fights against the dark evils of this world.

Guy slides his hands around my back, pulls me to him. He kisses me. I kiss him back. Sighing into my mouth, Guy deepens the kiss and, despite my weariness, a swoop of want tugs at the pit of my stomach. I pull away.

"Don't," I whisper.

"Can't we get rid of Allan?" he asks.

"You mean, stick him out in that cold tunnel?"

"Just a thought." He is smiling, overjoyed to know that he hasn't lost me, that there's still a chance for us to be together.

"There will be time enough," I tell him. "When this is over."

"I truly hope so. I would hate to think that our last night together will be spent lying in a cold cellar with one of your henchmen lying no more than a hair's-breadth away."

"Oi, I heard that," Allan calls. "And I am not a henchman."

"The barrels," Guy growls.

Allan resumes his barrel tapping, whistling as well this time.

I lay my hand on Guy's knee, intent on telling him what I could not tell him earlier. In turn, he lays his clean hand on top of my dirty and bloodied one, the one that once wore his ring, now lost somewhere under the fallen leaves of Sherwood.

"I need to tell you the other reason why I came to the castle today, the one that has nothing to do with Locksley and everything to do with you and me."

Guy looks at me, his eyes hopeful, beseeching – just as Much's were when he looked at me and hoped I was going to say that Guy was out of our lives, of my life.

"What I said about the child was the truth. The baby is not mine. It's Murdac's."

"Murdac's?"

"Murdac raped Rowena."

Guy sits back on his haunches, digesting the information.

"Even so," he says. "How can you be certain it's not yours? You shared a bed with the girl; don't go telling me all you did was trade thieving tactics."

"No," I say, quietly.

"You told me it was yours. You told me—"

"Listen to me," I say. "After I escaped my bonds, I followed you to Nottingham. On the way, I ran into Luke Scarlett. He was looking for our camp, to give me the message from Murdac. While we were talking, he told me that Rowena had confided in him about the baby. This was before I returned to Locksley. Before me and Rowena..."

Gently prising open Guy's clenched fist, I slip my bloodied hand into his, lace our fingers together.

"And the other thing," Guy says. "The other thing you said to me outside the gatehouse. Did you mean it?"

"Yes, I meant it."

Guy closes his eyes, blows out a long, grateful breath. I lean towards him, until our foreheads are touching.

"Ahem," Allan coughs. "Sorry to spoil the moment, but don't you think we should try to get some sleep before Mother Superior comes knocking on the door?"

"Sorry, Allan," I say, sitting upright and letting go of Guy's hand. "You're right, we should try to sleep. God knows, I could do with it."

Allan holds up some empty grain sacks and a couple of thin blankets. "Not exactly Locksley, or the camp come to that, but it's all I could scrape together in the time I had."

"It'll do," I tell him.

We look at the cramped floor space, in between the barrels.

"Allan, you sleep there," I say, pointing. "I'll take the middle, Guy the other side."

"Very cosy," Guy grumbles.

"Now look gents," Allan says, flopping down onto a sack and pulling one of the blankets up to his chin. "I know you're pleased Guy's alive, and vice versa, but no funny business, all right, because I need my beauty sleep."

"Allan, I couldn't do funny business if my life depended on it," I say. "Now go to sleep."

"My pleasure," Allan yawns. "And Guy?"

"What?"

"Just don't roll over in the night thinking I'm Robin."

"Trust me, I will not mistake you for Robin."

A heartbeat goes by, and another, and another. The witty remark doesn't come, Allan already drifting to sleep.

Guy lies down and, after finding the leather doublet too uncomfortable to sleep in and removing it, I do likewise. I shiver.

Under the thin blanket, Guy finds my hand, squeezes it. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Robin, I want you to know that you mean the world to me and that if we are to die, then—"

"Shush," I say. "No one's going to die. I'm Robin Hood – remember?"

I kiss him. He sits, removes his shirt, lies down again. He pulls the blanket over the two of us and wraps me in his arms. Pressing into his warm chest, I stop shivering. Moments later, I hear his familiar night-time breaths and know he is asleep.

I close my eyes, half wanting sleep to come immediately, half wanting to stay awake a little longer, so I might savour this perfect moment.

Behind me, Allan snores, mumbles something unintelligible.

Almost perfect moment.

**to be continued...**


	31. Everything I Do

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to the BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta. And to **Jammeke **for the banner.

_**Previously...**_

"_Now look gents," Allan says, flopping down onto a sack and pulling one of the blankets up to his chin. "I know you're pleased Guy's alive, and vice versa, but no funny business, all right, because I need my beauty sleep."_

"_Allan, I couldn't do funny business if my life depended on it," I say. "Now go to sleep." _

"_My pleasure," Allan yawns. "And Guy?" _

"_What?" _

"_Just don't roll over in the night thinking I'm Robin."_

"_Trust me, I will not mistake you for Robin." _

_A heartbeat goes by, and another, and another. The witty remark doesn't come, Allan already drifting to sleep._

_Guy lies down and, after finding the leather doublet too uncomfortable to sleep in and removing it, I do likewise. I shiver. _

_Under the thin blanket, Guy finds my hand, squeezes it. "Whatever happens tomorrow, Robin, I want you to know that you mean the world to me and that if we are to die, then—"_

"_Shush," I say. "No one's going to die. I'm Robin Hood – remember?" _

_I kiss him. He sits, removes his shirt, lies down again. He pulls the blanket over the two of us and wraps me in his arms. Pressing into his warm chest, I stop shivering. Moments later, I hear his familiar night-time breaths and know he is asleep. _

_I close my eyes, half wanting sleep to come immediately, half wanting to stay awake a little longer, so I might savour this perfect moment._

_Behind me, Allan snores, mumbles something unintelligible._

_Almost perfect moment. _

**Everything I Do**

"Easy as shelling peas," Allan had said.

Unbelievably – after a restless and all-too-short night – we had escaped Nottingham, passing through the town gate without detection.

Guy swears as he fails, yet again, to thread a particularly blunt-looking needle.

"Leave it," I say, leaning towards him and brushing my lips across his stubbled chin.

"I cannot leave it." Ignoring my kiss, he threads the needle with an elated 'yes'. "Give me your arm."

I do as he asks, jerking as the fat needle pierces my sword-slashed flesh.

"Sorry." Guy licks his lips, concentrates.

Staring off into the forest, I sit quietly, waiting for him to finish.

"It's not very neat." He ties off the bloodied thread and brandishes a fresh bandage.

I wave the bandage away. "Better to let the air get to it."

"All right. How does it feel?"

I circle my twice-injured arm a couple of times. "Good." I slide both it and my undamaged left arm behind Guy's neck and give him a long and distinctly needy kiss.

Guy pulls away, gives me a questioning look.

"We are alone," I smile. "Alone, and out of danger."

"Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?" he asks, eyeing the black and purple bruises on my bare chest and arms and my still-healing stomach wound.

"Yes. For the first time, we have the entire camp to ourselves."

Guy peers around as though he expects Much, John or Allan to jump out on us at any given moment, refuting my words of assurance.

After escaping Nottingham, with the help of the nuns of Kirklees Abbey and the compartmented wagon Will Scarlett had made for them, I had sent Allan to Locksley. I wanted him to warn Little John that Murdac might yet try to burn the village, despite the deal we made yesterday, the terms of which – it soon became clear – Murdac had no intention of keeping.

In truth, I thought it unlikely that Murdac would choose to deplete his army after I had revealed that King Richard and his army were encamped a few miles away but decided it would be unwise to ignore the possibility. I had humiliated Murdac in front of his men and he would want revenge. It would not take more than a small contingent of armed men to make mischief in my village, but I was certain John and Allan together would be able to deal with it, swiftly and mercilessly. The fact that it left me free to make my own mischief with Guy had nothing to do with dismissing Allan, or at least that's what I told myself.

Much, of course, was already with King Richard, doubtless fretting, imagining the worse – scavenging birds pecking at my bloody corpse while my severed head sits on a spike above the castle gateway. I had promised myself, should we get out of Nottingham alive, that we would hasten to the King's camp to tell Richard about my desperate act of revealing that the Lionheart was about to storm the castle that his not-so-dear brother, John, had undoubtedly commanded Murdac to hold at all costs.

"But the King," Guy says, as if reading my thoughts. "If we do not leave now, we will not make his camp before nightfall, especially as we have no horses to carry us."

"There will be time enough." I finger the back of his hand, the one still gripping the unwanted bandage. "Let's use my bed. It's too cold out here."

"Your bed is too narrow."

"I have no intention of lying next to you, if that's what you mean, rather, of being on top."

Guy raises his eyebrows, surprised. Lately, we had fallen into the habit of me being the one underneath. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because I took the lead in almost everything else we did and enjoyed the chance to simply lie back and think of England, or, preferably, not think of England.

"But your arm," Guy protests.

"Will be fine." Shivering, in anticipation of what I'm about to do as much as the chilly March wind on my exposed skin, I walk purposely towards our sleeping area. A couple of heartbeats later, I hear heavy footfalls coming up behind me.

Glancing apologetically at Much's bunk – where he sleeps every night with his legs habitually pulled up to his chest, his thumb hovering at the corner of his mouth – I turn around to face Guy.

He looks at my unmade bed and at the few personal belongings stashed underneath it.

"You're sure?"

"Guy, for someone who would knock me out and tie me to a tree in order to fuck me, you are being uncharacteristically reluctant here."

Mouth twitching, he says, "I do not want to hurt you."

"You won't."

Satisfied, Guy unbuckles his weapons belt and tosses it onto Much's bed, quickly followed by his boots, doublet and the rest of his clothing. I remove my footwear and breeches and gesture for him to join me on my bed.

Silently acknowledging that time is short, we quickly move on from kissing and running our hands over each other's bare flesh.

"What?" I ask.

"If you want to do this," Guy says, again eyeing my various cuts and bruises, "perhaps it would be easier if I went on all fours, and then you could—"

"No. I want to see your face. I want to be able to kiss you."

He smiles, delight and thankfulness obliterating his habitually stern expression. "Will you say the thing you said to me outside the gatehouse?"

"What thing would that be?" I ask, straight-faced, unable to resist the temptation to tease him now we are back on a more familiar footing, now that he knows I am not going to marry Rowena.

"You know," he scowls, and then half-smiles when he catches my widening grin.

"Sorry," I say, determining to keep my teasing restricted to Much in future. "Yes, I will say it – over and over."

And I do – in between the grunts and playful bites and my fumbling for the pot of grease that I secreted under my bed long before I was certain Guy and me were for keeps.

All the aching want, all the regret for the wrongs we have both committed these past few days, pour into our lovemaking. When I tell Guy I love him, he opens his eyes and stares into mine. He repeats my words of love back at me, grins lasciviously when I make dirty suggestions that I fail to articulate outside of our fucking sessions and smilingly tolerates my halting apology when my injured arm cramps and I have to stop, moments away from capitulating. Guy doesn't care, says he's happy as long as we are together.

"Let me help," he says, wrapping his long, slim fingers around my half-hard cock.

He is good and it isn't long before I make a mess of both the bed and Guy's legs.

Shaking and grateful, I suggest we wrap ourselves up in warm blankets and delay travelling to the King's camp until tomorrow. It is a half-hearted suggestion; Guy knows I am anxious to reach the King as quickly as possible.

"Get dressed," he says, waving away my offer to return the favour. "I'll go find us some supplies for the journey."

Turning his back on me, Guy starts to dress. I smile at the small brown mole on his pale backside, a blemish on his otherwise unblemished skin. His dark hair is past his shoulders, and I wonder if Marian would have continued to let her hair grow, had she lived. Guilt clogs my throat; I have not thought of Marian at all these past few days.

Guy steps into his leathers, swings round. "You're watching me."

"I like watching you."

"Why?"

"Because in the Holy Land, when I was surrounded by men, I had every opportunity to look at their naked bodies and yet I resisted because I thought if I looked then I would want to...that I might be tempted...as many indeed did...to—"

Guy is grinning.

"What?" I retort.

"I like it when your mouth and your head stop working together. It reminds me of when we were children and you used to boast to the other children about some deed or other. And then your father would come along and clip you round the ear for exaggerating, and you'd stumble over your words, trying to make excuses."

"I did not boast."

"I beg to differ." Guy glances outside, at the late afternoon sun. "Anyway," he says, "that's your reason? You didn't then and you can now?"

"Yes."

"In that case," he says, unbuckling his half-buckled leathers, "perhaps you'd care to give this some study."

"And I thought you were being so self-restrained," I laugh, dropping to my knees.

Guy rests a hand on top of my head. "Just mind the leathers."

Pulling on my boots, my thoughts drift back to the conversation Guy and I had had as we walked to the camp.

He had asked me what I thought might happen to us once the castle was back in King Richard's hands, either by force, or by the surrender of Murdac and his men. I had dodged the question by telling him I needed to squat behind a tree, and, on resuming walking, had continued to evade answering by pointing out some of the smaller tracks criss-crossing the forest that the gang and I often used when running from Vaisey's dogs and men.

Successfully distracted, Guy forgot all about his question, for which I was glad. Because the truth is, I don't want to think about the upcoming fight for the castle, or beyond it. Because every time I do, I recall my nightmare, of us plummeting from the battlements to the cobbled courtyard below, of Guy broken and lifeless while I, miraculously, survive. And I don't want to live, not without him.

Guy calls out, asking if I'm nearly ready, and I call back that I'm on my way.

As I emerge from the shadowy sleeping area into the dazzling spring sunshine, an idea slams into my brain, an idea so simple I cannot believe it has taken me this long to think of it. I glance across at Guy, busily filling our wineskins. Excited by my thoughts, I stride towards him.

At the sound of my footsteps, Guy turns around. He nods towards a couple of shallow bowls sitting on a nearby tree stump, on top of which lies some less-than-fresh bread and cheese.

"Sorry," he says. "Best I could do." He bends down, picks up a bowl and offers it to me. I wave it away.

"You have to eat, Robin. Your ribs are starting to stick into me when we—"

Guy gets no further, as I quickly close the gap between us, take him in my arms and kiss him on the lips.

"What was that for?" he asks.

"For you," I say. "For being here when you could have easily walked away."

"I wasn't going to walk away, though, was I?" Guy shifts his attention to the leaves at my feet. "I was going to expose you for what you are, for what we are. I was going to ruin you because I—"

"Shush," I tell him, raising his chin and placing a finger upon his lips. "I don't blame you, not after what I put you though."

Guy smiles, relieved. "You're my world, you know that. Without you, I have nothing." He cups my face, kisses me long and hard.

"And you will always have me," I tell him, as we break apart.

"I wish I could be as sure as you," he says. "You saw those men in the castle. Despite your words about the King's likely benevolence, they will do as Murdac commands them to do, as any good knight does, and we will have to fight them, and although I am a good swordsman that doesn't mean..." He trails off. "You're not listening. What is it?"

"I have a plan," I smile.

"It doesn't involve nuns, does it? Only nuns getting us out of Nottingham is one thing, nuns taking on the might of—"

"No," I laugh, "it doesn't involve nuns. It involves you and me and us getting out of here – now."

"I don't understand."

"Guy, we can leave Nottingham, today. Leave and never look back. Start afresh. Go somewhere where no one has heard of Robin Hood."

"But the King. How can you—"

"Fuck the King."

Guy's eyes widen. "You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do. I've spent the better part of the last seven years fighting for Richard and his causes, fighting to keep his throne safe, protecting the England he seems to care so little for. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of watching people I love die because—"

Guy flinches. I have strayed into dangerous territory.

Gripping his upper arms, I say, "If anything should happen to you in the castle, I do not think I could bear it. To lose someone else I love, it would kill me."

"What about last night," he says, "in the cellar? What you said about being beside Richard when the fighting starts, about protecting him above all else."

My arms drop to my sides, my excellent plan crumbling at his words. 

"I can't believe you're talking like this, Robin."

"Like what?"

"Like you're giving up."

"I'm not giving up. I'm just trying to do what's best for us."

"Robin, look at me." I raise my eyes to meet his. "You're not alone in this fight. You have me, your friends, the whole might of King Richard's army behind you. You've been to Hell and back to get here – we both have. Surely, you would not turn tail now? Surely the Robin I know and love would want to see this through to the end?"

"I'm tired, Guy. I just want to—"

Guy smiles.

"What?" I ask.

"If you're so tired, you should not suggest fucking me when you could be using the time to rest."

"That was me resting," I smile back.

"No, Robin," he says, serious now. "We have to see this through. God knows, I would like to do what you're suggesting. But I've waited for this moment for a long time, to fight alongside you, to be proud of something I've done. Would you take that from me? Would you have us slink away like thieves in the night?"

I see it now. It's as though we have swapped roles – me, ready to ignore everything and everyone for the sake of one person. And Guy, loving me, but still willing to fight, to sacrifice himself for the greater good – to do what is right.

I am sick of doing the right thing and have been for a long time; but I must do the right thing or I won't be Robin Hood anymore, and, although Guy loves tired, disillusioned, battle-weary Robin, I have to be Robin Hood – for him, for me and for my people.

"If the King dies," Guy says, "and you were not there to at least try to prevent it, you would come to resent me."

"No, I wouldn't, I—"

"Yes, you would. Now, come on." Guy picks up the food bowls, tipping the contents into Much's discarded satchel. "We should make a move if we want to reach the King's camp before nightfall. We can eat on the way."

I nod and, reluctantly, return to the interior of the camp to retrieve my weapons.

"Maybe it will not come to bloodshed," Guy says, as we walk, side-by-side. "You saw the hopeful looks on those crusaders' faces when you spoke of the King's terms of surrender."

"Richard will be disappointed," I smile.

At the edge of the camp, I turn around, eyeing our things – the fallen tree we sit and eat our meals upon, Much's kitchen, the fire and the empty pot hanging over it.

Guy lightly touches my arm. "You will see your precious camp again."

He moves away and I turn to follow, smiling at the sight of Much's worn satchel slapping his leathered backside.

**to be continued...**


	32. All the King's Men

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to the BBC/Tiger Aspect. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

xxx

_**Previously...**_

_I am sick of doing the right thing and have been for a long time; but I must do the right thing or I won't be Robin Hood anymore, and, although Guy loves tired, disillusioned, battle-weary Robin, I have to be Robin Hood – for him, for me and for my people. _

"_If the King dies," Guy says, "and you were not there to at least try to prevent it, you would come to resent me." _

"_No, I wouldn't, I—"_

"_Yes, you would. Now, come on." Guy picks up the food bowls, tipping the contents into Much's discarded satchel. "We should make a move if we want to reach the King's camp before nightfall. We can eat on the way."_

_I nod and, reluctantly, return to the interior of the camp to retrieve my weapons._

"_Maybe it will not come to bloodshed," Guy says, as we walk, side-by-side. "You saw the hopeful looks on those crusaders' faces when you spoke of the King's terms of surrender."_

"_Richard will be disappointed," I smile. _

_At the edge of the camp, I turn around, eyeing our things – the fallen tree we sit and eat our meals upon, Much's kitchen, the fire and the empty pot hanging over it. _

_Guy lightly touches my arm. "You will see your precious camp again." _

_He moves away and I turn to follow, smiling at the sight of Much's worn satchel slapping his leathered backside._

xxx

**All the King's Men**

Screaming, the man-at-arms drops his sword, gauntleted hands clawing at his face. A heartbeat later, he crumples to the ground and dies. Good. Another one down. Another one who can't hurt the King, or my friends – or Guy.

"Bravo!" Richard booms.

Smiling broadly at me, the King raises his sword arm in salute. Leaning from atop his magnificent white destrier, Richard barks into his standard-bearer's ear. The young lad nods and lifts the pennant higher, shouting in a shrill voice, "Long live King Richard!"

In acknowledgement, I tip my bloodied sword in Richard's direction. I do not return his smile.

"You hear that," Richard roars. "I am Richard the Lionheart, King of England and this..." He waves his great broadsword at the walls surrounding the castle courtyard. "This is my castle, and I want it back. Now!"

If Murdac's men thought my earlier claim about the King being in Nottinghamshire a lie – despite our burning the gatehouse and outer palisade to the ground and Richard hanging several captured men-at-arms yesterday as a warning of what will befall the defenders if they do not surrender – they do not now. Even so, it is clear they are not yet ready to surrender, or at least not while Murdac is still in command.

I glance around me, trying to spot Murdac's short frame among the mass of fighting men and stamping horses, hoping that something other than a black surcoat decorated with red chevrons might mark him out from the rest of his men-at-arms.

"Fighting," Much grumbles, transferring his shield to his sword hand so he can adjust his helmet, knocked askew. "I hate fighting. If I don't get my Bonchurch after this I will...I will..."

Whatever he is about to say has to wait, as two armed men are bearing down on us.

"Take the one on the left," I tell him, pointing to be doubly sure Much knows which one I mean.

My attacker is big, but he is also clumsy and, after a couple of ineffectual swipes with his sword, which I nimbly sidestep, I catch him under the chin, sending him stumbling backwards. I charge, slamming into his huge mailed chest. Cursing, he smacks onto the hard stones underfoot. Blood oozes from his split lips. A swift kick between his spread legs and he drops his sword with an agonised yelp. A heartbeat later, he is staring up at the morning sky with his one remaining eye. Good. Another one down.

Trembling, I swivel round, praying Much is still on his feet. He is.

"You said this would soon be over," Much pants, scowling as another boulder, hurled by one of Richard's mangonels, smashes into the castle walls.

"And so it will, my friend. If we can just find and hold Murdac then—"

"Huntingdon."

There is only one man that calls me by that name.

Christophe, on foot and covered in blood, steps over the man I have just killed and stands in front of me.

"For a man who has lost his taste for bloodshed, you seem to be doing remarkably well, _outlaw_."

"I am doing my duty and you know it. Now, get out of my way."

In the two weeks since Guy and I arrived at the King's camp, this is the first time I have exchanged words with Christophe. Richard, keen to avoid atrocities on his own doorstep, had warned his bedmate – now former, I had since learned – to avoid contact with both Guy and myself if he wanted to "keep his not-so-pretty head on his shoulders".

I make to push past Christophe, but he quickly steps in front of me.

"My liege lord's castle," Christophe says, throwing out his arms to indicate the inner courtyard, littered with dead and dying men, "will be won more easily if its constable were in irons."

"That," Much bristles, "is not my master's fault. If Murdac does not show himself then how—"

"Robin!"

My knees buckle slightly, relief flooding through me. Richard had charged Guy with overseeing the assembly of his siege engines in a camp some miles distant from the archers and mounted knights. When I had protested, arguing that Guy knew nothing of trebuchets and battering rams, Richard had warned that if I did not remain silent on the matter he would leave me in his woodland camp, clamped in irons. Angry at my warning Murdac of the King's imminent arrival in Nottingham, Richard had decided to punish me by putting me in charge of the archers, thus keeping Guy and me apart until we were advancing on the castle, when we had only been able to exchange the briefest of words before the fighting began in earnest.

"You," Guy snarls, skidding to a stop beside me.

"Gisborne," Christophe says, curling his upper lip and regarding Guy as one would a piece of rancid meat.

"Guy, don't," I warn, noticing Guy's gloved hand tightening around his sword's hilt. "Now is not the time or place."

"You will get what's coming to you, make no mistake," Guy growls, relaxing his grip.

Christophe shrugs his shoulders, clearly unconcerned. "And you will get what's coming to you when Richard learns you have left your command of his siege engines."

"Robin!"

I relax my own clenched fist, thankful for Little John's timely intervention, only to be dismayed a moment later as he waves his great wooden staff towards the castle steps. Pouring out of the main castle door are scores of black and red-coated men-at-arms. Reinforcements.

"This way." Guy waves us towards the bulk of our own men.

"Is Murdac with them?" I shout, trying to make myself heard above the din of curses and cries, neighing horses and the thudding of accurately hurled boulders.

"No," Christophe shouts back, running alongside us. "He's not."

"How can you be so sure?" I ask, realising I must put aside my dislike of Christophe until the fighting is over.

"Because I know where he is, that's why. Follow me. There is no time to waste."

Without waiting for my response, Christophe turns and sprints towards the east tower.

"Robin?" Guy queries.

I don't know what to do. Should I stay and protect the King, as is my sworn duty, or go after Murdac in the hope that his capture might mean a swift end to the hostilities?

I turn back to the courtyard. Richard, still sitting astride his fine warhorse, plunges his great broadsword into the neck of an attacker, roaring in triumph. At his cry, several of our men, including two on horseback, surround the battle-hungry King, despite Richard bawling at them to get out of his way and let him prove he is the greatest fighter in all of Christendom.

Deeming Richard safe, I yell at Much to get a message to the King telling him that Christophe knows where Murdac is hiding and that we are going after him.

"But, but—"

"No buts, Much. Just do it."

"There might be hundreds...well maybe not hundreds...but a great number of men protecting Murdac," Much argues. "At least take some more men with you. You can't risk—"

"If Christophe thought Murdac was being guarded," I interrupt, "do you think he would be so foolish as to go rushing into the castle alone? He may be a bootlicking toad, but Christophe is an experienced knight. He also values his neck too highly to risk losing it. Now go."

Giving Much a push, I turn and charge after Christophe, Guy at my side.

"Be ready for anything," I tell Guy, as we slip through the east tower door and ascend a narrow, spiral staircase. "Especially the need to get out, fast."

"He's in the great hall," Christophe calls, doubtless hearing Guy's and my boots pounding up the stone stairs.

Reaching the top of the stairs, we find Christophe, helmetless, holding a flaming torch. Nodding at Guy, we remove our own helmets and silently follow Christophe along the dimly lit corridors towards the innermost part of the castle.

On reaching the great hall's massive oak doors, Guy whispers, "How do you know Murdac is hiding in here?"

"Because this is where the concealed entrance to the old sheriff's tunnel is," Christophe whispers back, having obviously studied the detailed map that Guy had presented to Richard shortly after our arrival. He pushes open the double doors and, swords at the ready, we follow him through. Apart from the furnishings, the hall appears empty. "And that," Christophe says, louder now, "is how I will be making my escape once I've dealt with you two."

The double doors slam shut behind us. Turning around, we find two men-at-arms pointing swords at our chests.

"A trap," Guy mutters.

We turn back to the hall to find four more of Christophe's henchmen – quite possibly the ones he had with him the day Guy was stripped of his clothes and forced to lie in the snow – stepping out from behind the hall's wooden panelling, the entrance to Vaisey's escape route from the castle.

xxx

Seven armed men, including Christophe, against the two of us.

"Robin," Guy says. "Tell me you have a plan."

I have been a fool. Desperate to capture Murdac, so the fighting might end and my nightmare – of Guy plummeting to his death – might not come true, I had been willing to trust a man who has hated me almost from the moment we first met.

I shake my head. "Sorry."

"Then we fight," Guy says, charging at Christophe.

I swivel round, to take on the two men at our backs, sick at heart, knowing that Guy's proud moment – fighting for King and country alongside me – is about to be denied him because of my stupidity.

A cold, hard fury claws up my throat. Dodging a wildly swung sword, I bring my scimitar down on my opponent's arm, parting sword-hand from wrist. The injured man drops to his knees, screaming in agony. Without drawing breath, I block his companion's answering sword with mine, feint a lunge for his legs, before despatching him with a vicious slash under his chin.

"Please, no. Robin!"

Heart pounding, I spin round. Guy is on the floor, face bleeding, sword gone. Five men, led by a cruelly grinning Christophe, are readying their blades, preparing to plunge them into whatever part of his body they can reach.

"I'm here," I cry, leaping towards his attackers, even though I know I don't stand a chance of fighting them all off.

"Master!"

The hall's double doors smack open and John, Much and Allan burst into the room.

"This," Much shouts, wielding shield and sword, "is a rescue."

"Ha, ha!" I exclaim, rounding on Christophe.

"No," Guy cries, grabbing my ankle. "He's mine."

With a bellow loud enough to shake the roof timbers, John whacks an advancing man-at-arms round the head, knocking him out. Allan, his two swords whirling and slicing, swiftly deals with two more of our attackers, while Much, with an elated "Take that!", batters the remaining man's face with his shield, John finishing him off with a bare-knuckled punch to his chin. Knowing he cannot fight us singlehandedly, Christophe turns and races for the wooden panelling, intent on escape.

Pushing to his feet, Guy quickly retrieves his fallen sword. "I will have him," he says, wiping a gloved hand across his bloodied mouth and striding towards the hidden tunnel.

"No," I tell him. "Let him go. He will not get far."

"That's right," Allan says, sheathing his two swords behind his back. "He can't escape. Like I told you, the exit's caved in."

"What about the other one?" Guy asks. "The one you said comes out inside the sheriff's stables?"

Guy may have his faults, but having a bad memory is not one of them.

"Guy," I say, quickly closing the gap between us and laying a staying hand on his arm. "No good can come of revenge. Christophe will pay for what he has done today, especially if the King gets to hear of it. And I am certain Richard's punishment will be a lot worse than a swift death by your sword."

Glancing towards the wood panelling and then back at me, Guy says, "You are right, Robin. Revenge is no balm to the soul and I would do well to remember that. Now, I believe," he smiles, "we should get back to that king of yours lest you want to fall out of favour with him yet again."

xxx

As we race back down the corridors, I thank my friends for their timely arrival.

"You've got Much to thank for that," Allan says. "He told us that he thought you might be heading into trouble. We all know Much tends to exaggerate, but when he mentioned Christophe and where you were going I thought it sounded iffy enough to be suspicious."

"Well, I'm very grateful, to all of you. We both are," I add as we reach the door leading to the east tower steps and Guy hands me my helmet.

One behind the other, we descend the narrow staircase. At the tower door, the gang ready their weapons. With a quiet "For England," John opens the door and my friends rush outside to join the tumult of fighting men.

Clutching his sword, Guy makes to follow.

"Guy." I grab hold of his wrist. "Be careful."

He glances from my gloved hand to my face, partially obscured by the nose-pieced helmet. "You too," he says, our helmets clashing as he gives me a swift kiss.

Side-by-side, we step out into the dazzling March sunshine and bloody carnage.

"Where's the King?" Guy immediately asks.

Hurriedly, I survey the courtyard. "There," I say, pointing at Richard's standard, flapping in the stiff breeze, and the crowned man standing beside it. The King's beautiful white destrier is lying on the ground, a crossbow bolt through its neck.

In the short time we had been gone, it seems the fighting had not abated. There are many more men on the ground, both Murdac's and our own. Some quite still, others twitching and moaning, mumbling prayers, or crying for their soon-to-be fatherless families, some crawling across the blood-splattered cobblestones, their life spark not yet extinguished. Doubtless Murdac had warned his men not to yield under any circumstances and Richard, too, seemed intent on continuing the bloodshed, clearly deciding that none of the enemy were worth ransoming.

"And where is Murdac?" I hiss, taking advantage of a present lack of opponent to rub and circle my aching right arm.

"That scum, Christophe, might have been right. The coward is probably hiding in the castle, or maybe he—"

Guy pauses, notices me flexing my fingers.

"Your arm, is it—"

"It's fine," I snap.

It's not fine. It's hurting. But I'm not about to let Guy know this.

Determined to end this thing before someone ends me, I tell Guy I have a plan and to be ready. Then, weaving past battling men and leaping over dead and dying ones, I race across to a pile of barrels on the far side of the courtyard calling out to Allan as I do so.

Dressed as a castle servant, Allan had earlier used the tunnel leading from The Trip through to the upper bailey of the castle to secret in both my bow and quiver and a small pouch of Greek fire – the latter courtesy of the ever-smart Djaq upon our leaving the Holy Land – in case either should be of use.

Hidden inside one of the lower barrels is my precious bow, along with the pouch of black powder. Tucking the pouch into my knife belt and strapping on my quiver, I clamber up to the topmost barrel, raise my bow and nock and loose several arrows in quick succession, impaling two of Murdac's men and scattering others.

"It's Robin Hood!" someone cries, and there is a momentary lull in the fighting as men from both sides stop to look about them.

"Now that I've got your attention," I shout. "I would strongly suggest that you lay down your arms, otherwise this Greek fire..." I pull the pouch from my belt and hold it aloft, "will do some serious damage to both you and this castle." If I had had the time to look in Richard's direction, I'm sure I would have seen him glowering at me, having earlier warned that I should only use the Greek fire as a last resort: the King did not want his men risking their lives for a castle only to end up with one that had to be massively rebuilt.

Richard's men, quickly sensing the danger, are scurrying out of harm's way.

"Tell me where your cowardly leader is," I demand, "before this black powder comes into contact with my arrow."

"You need a flame to make it go boom," a voice calls. There is a ripple of laughter around the courtyard.

"Good job I've got one then," I smile, as Allan, flaming torch in hand, slips out of a narrow door hidden behind the barrels and climbs up beside me.

"Now, I'll ask you one more time. Where is Murdac?"

The torch trembles, Allan clearly terrified I am about to carry out my threat.

"Over here," a voice calls.

"Hallelujah," Allan sighs, holding the torch out of harm's way.

I look up. On the opposite battlements stands a solitary crossbowman. Murdac. Directly below him is the King, who – determined to rescue his injured standard-bearer and leaving the protection of his guards – is alone.

"Sire!" I yell.

Richard, down on his knees and seemingly unaware of the danger he is in, raises his head. Wearing only his light desert armour – which he insisted on wearing despite my arguing against it – Richard stands little chance of avoiding death or serious injury from a well-aimed crossbow bolt.

I look up at the battlements and drop the pouch of black powder at my feet. Guy is charging towards Murdac, sword held out in front of him.

"For the King and Robin Hood!" he yells.

Murdac swings round, aiming the lethal crossbow bolt at Guy, and my nightmare – of Guy falling from the battlements, this time impaled by a deadly shaft of iron-tipped oak – seems about to come true.

Whipping an arrow from my quiver, I take aim and let it fly, almost weeping with relief when the crossbow smashes on the courtyard cobbles. Roaring in fury, Murdac draws his sword. A heartbeat later, he topples from the battlements, my arrow through his neck. He hits the ground with a bone-crunching thud.

For a short while, there is no sound other than the faint moans of injured or dying men and the soft whinnying of horses. Then, slowly and carefully, Murdac's men lay down their weapons.

The fight for Nottingham castle is over.

The King's injured standard-bearer, limping but smiling bravely, leads a horse over to Richard. Patting the lad's shoulder, the King heaves himself into the saddle.

"I thank you, brave sir," Richard calls, raising a gloved hand at Guy.

I may have fired the arrow that killed Murdac, but it was Guy's initial challenge that saved the King's life and Richard knows it.

Sheathing his sword, Guy gives the King a small bow.

Shakily, I climb down from the barrels and make my way towards Murdac's lifeless body. Crouching, I stare at his pallid face. His dark brown eyes are gazing sightlessly at the clear blue sky, a small trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth and trickling along the cracks in the unforgiving cobbles.

"For Guy," I softly mouth.

Straightening up, I scan the courtyard for my friends as well as looking for men who are injured and need help. As I kneel to offer words of reassurance to a young knight who, I know from experience, is only moments from death, I hear a strangled cry. I leap to my feet. Murdac's deputy, the skinny blonde with the mouthful of yellowed teeth, and a handful of men are charging up the steps towards the battlements – towards Guy.

My stomach drops to my boots. The eyes in my nightmare, staring sightlessly towards the heavens, were blue, bright blue.

Sliding my bow from my shoulder, I reach for an arrow. My quiver is empty. I draw my sword and race towards the steps at the opposite end of the battlements, a great chasm opening up in my chest, my throat so tight I can scarcely breathe.

"Guy! Look out," I yell, charging up the steps. Hearing the barely concealed terror in my voice, Guy's head snaps up.

"Run!" I shout.

"I can't," he cries, waving me away and sliding down the merlon he has been leaning against.

"What is it?" I gasp, reaching him and grabbing his chin, forcing him to face me, knowing we only have moments to spare before Murdac's vengeful deputy and his men will be upon us.

"My leg," he grimaces, drawing up his knee-length mail hauberk and pointing at the slashed and bloodied leathers underneath.

It must have happened during the fight in the great hall and Guy had kept it to himself in case I forbade him to rejoin the battle.

"Leave me, Robin."

"No. I'm not leaving you. Get behind me."

"There are too many of them."

"Then we have to run." I wrap my free arm around Guy's waist and heave him to his feet.

"Robin!" John roars. He is waving frantically towards the west tower.

I shake my head. The tower stairs may be clear of the enemy, but Guy will not make it; even now, he is leaning heavily against me, threatening to pull us both over the edge and onto the courtyard below.

"Guy." I drop my sword at my feet and point.

"You're not serious?"

"I am."

"The fall will kill us."

"Possibly."

"It's not Locksley pond."

"No."

"Or the sea."

"Not a drop of water in sight."

Guy turns to face me, stares into my eyes. He remembers. So do I.

"On the count of three," he smiles.

"Three," I smile back.

We count one, and jump.

**to be continued...**


	33. Endings and Beginnings

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. All rights reserved. No copyright infringement intended. No monies are being made.

Thanks to **Sunnyday30 **for the beta.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_Leave me, Robin."_

"_No. I'm not leaving you. Get behind me." _

"_There are too many of them."_

"_Then we have to run." I wrap my free arm around Guy's waist and heave him to his feet._

"_Robin!" John roars. He is waving frantically towards the west tower._

_I shake my head. The tower stairs may be clear of the enemy, but Guy will not make it; even now, he is leaning heavily against me, threatening to pull us both over the edge and onto the courtyard below. _

"_Guy." I drop my sword at my feet and point._

"_You're not serious?" _

"_I am." _

"_The fall will kill us." _

"_Possibly." _

"_It's not Locksley pond." _

"_No." _

"_Or the sea."_

"_Not a drop of water in sight."_

_Guy turns to face me, stares into my eyes. He remembers. So do I._

"_On the count of three," he smiles._

"_Three," I smile back._

_We count one, and jump._

* * *

**Endings and Beginnings**

The fall didn't kill us.

But if looks could kill, I'm a dead man.

"You and your heroic ideas. Do you know what that _witch_ did to me?" Wincing, Guy pushes himself out of the fireside chair. I wave him down and, with a surly humph, he falls back into it.

"You hurt your leg before we jumped," I point out, "and it was hardly my fault you landed so gracelessly and dislocated your shoulder." Wearily, I remove my weapons and lean them against the panelled wall, beneath the hall's red and gold tapestry, along with the weighty leather pouch given to me by King Richard. "And, for your information, Matilda is not a witch."

"Ha! You could have fooled me."

"Actually," I smile, circling my aching right arm, "we did fool you, you and Sheriff Vaisey, but I guess you don't want to be reminded of the Holy pork episode."

Guy shakes his head, turns to stare sullenly at the dwindling fire.

"So, what did the _witch_ do to you?" I ask, stretching and looking around for another chair that I can drag in front of the fire.

"She used a needle with an eyelet the size of my fist and joked about not being sure which bottle contained a draught for the pain and which one was poison."

"The size of your fist?" I say, raising a sceptical eyebrow and deciding I don't have the strength right now to pick up a feather, let alone heave one of Locksley Manor's cumbersome armchairs to rest beside Guy's chair.

"Yes, and I'm sure if I hadn't stayed conscious during the whole procedure she'd have stitched something rude and incriminating on my leg. As it was, I had to put up with a tirade of unseemly words that would make the most worldly of men blush."

"You should be grateful," I say, struggling to keep a straight face. "For all her forthrightness, Matilda is a good and kind soul. She has looked after me and mine for a long number of years, and she has kept quiet about the two of us when she has more reason than most not to."

"That still doesn't give her the right to call me a great, steaming—"

"A great, steaming what?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

Guy turns back to the fire, but not so quickly that I don't see his mouth twitching. Despite his ill humour, I think he rather enjoyed trading insults with Matilda.

With no chair to sit upon, I kneel on the fireside rug and place a hand on Guy's knee. He doesn't look like the Guy I know and love, dressed in peasant's clothing, but his slashed and bloodied leather breeches were beyond saving, and I expect Matilda took great delight in parting him from his beloved leather doublet in order to treat his damaged shoulder. I have no idea who the clothes belong to – certainly they're not mine – but I have no doubt Guy will want to replace them as soon as possible as the breeches are not only too tight but also end halfway up his shins.

"She was right about one thing," he says.

"What was that?"

"She said that if I got caught up in Robin Hood's games I was bound to get hurt sooner or later."

"Fighting to regain Nottingham Castle, not to mention saving the King of England's life, can hardly be called a game."

"Oh, I see, and jumping into a cartload of straw from a great height is a sensible thing to do, is it?"

"You didn't seem adverse to it at the time," I point out.

"I didn't have a choice."

"There are always choices."

"Being run through by Murdac's crazed deputy did not seem a better option."

"I don't know why you're grumbling. It worked, didn't it?"

Guy lays a fire-warmed hand on top of my ringless one. "I'm sorry. I know I should be more grateful. You saved my life, after all."

"And you saved the King's."

"I think it was your aim that saved the King."

"You were the one who distracted Murdac, giving me time to shoot."

"Are we going to spend all evening arguing about this?" Guy smiles.

I laugh, as relieved as Guy that the battle he had been anticipating and I had been dreading is over, that we are back in Locksley, behind closed doors.

"I missed you," I say, shuffling along on my knees so I am facing Guy, "when we were in the King's camp."

"I missed you, too. The nights can get cold in that damn forest."

I lean forwards and brush my lips across Guy's roughened knuckles. "That damn forest, as you call it, owes me a lot."

"Robin?"

"What?"

"We've hardly seen each other for the better part of two weeks. Surely, you can manage more than a chaste kiss on the back of my hand. After all, the last time you were down on your knees in front of me, it wasn't exactly my hand you were kissing."

Guy parts his legs so I can move closer. He leans towards my upturned face. Our lips meet, our mouths part and warm, wet tongues slide against and around each other.

"You've eaten," I say, when we eventually break apart.

"In case it's escaped your notice, I've been waiting ages for you to come home."

"I'm sorry," I say, his _come home_ not lost on me. "Richard kept me longer than I expected. Shall we...?" I point, with an enthusiasm I do not feel, towards the stairs that lead to the upper floor, to our bedchamber.

Guy shakes his head. "Much as I'd love to celebrate our victory today, I think the little I drank of the witch's draught is starting to take effect, and I fear I would not be much of a bedmate. Besides," he says, poking me in the ribs, "you should eat."

"I will, but not yet. I need to go see the gang, tell them what happened with the King."

"But it's almost dark," Guy protests. "Can't it wait until the morning?"

"No, it can't. When I sent the gang back to the camp, I told them I would join them as soon as I could. Seeing as you're about to fall asleep...no, don't deny it...I think now is as good a time as any. Besides, you know how Much frets."

"Very well." Guy knows, that where the gang is concerned, it is pointless trying to argue with me. "But won't you at least tell me first what the King said, or are you afraid it will displease me?"

"On the contrary. There is nothing the King said that will displease you."

"Don't tell me he didn't ask you to accompany him on his next campaign, or that he didn't offer you the chance to take the place of that fucking bedmate of his?"

"For your information, Richard did ask me to accompany him to Normandy. I refused, much as I refused the offer of two of his Angevin duchies. But, no, he did not ask me to lie with him, not today, and not in the future. Richard is no fool. He knows when to let a thing go. He knows I have everything I want – here."

I grasp Guy's hands, notice the flecks of blood caught under his fingernails and the thin red smear on the upper wrist of his sword-arm. I don't doubt that I will find myself similarly bloodied once I take the time to undress.

"That's all very well," Guy says, yanking his hands from mine, "but we can't stay _here_, can we? Not now. Talk of our bedding each other has already spilled into the taverns, and that will soon spill into the streets of Nottingham, and then into the villages, and, very soon, it will reach Locksley, even if the people here do not already suspect, and we, or rather you, will be done for. Because they won't forgive you, Robin, no matter that you helped save the King, or that you are their lord."

I resist the urge to remind him that it was not so long ago that he wanted to besmirch my name by shouting our sins from the rooftops.

"I should go," I say, jerking to my feet.

Guy grabs my arm. "We need to talk about this."

"We will," I say, shrugging him off me. "But not tonight."

Turning my back on him, I make for my weapons. Nottingham may be free of Murdac and the rest of Prince John's followers, but no one has seen Christophe since he made his escape by way of Vaisey's underground tunnel, and I will not be caught out a second time.

"I should have known things wouldn't change," Guy says. "That you would continue to put your friends before me, before us."

Sliding my bow onto my shoulder, I snatch up my quiver and am about to buckle it on when I notice the thin roll of parchment tucked in between my replenished arrows. I turn around.

"Guy. Very soon, my friends and I will most likely part company, or at least we will no longer see each other as often as we once did. Surely you would not deny me the chance to thank them properly for what they did today, especially Little John."

I extract the roll of parchment, stride back to the fireside and press it into Guy's hands. "Here. Perhaps this will give you some cheer."

"What is it?"

"Well, it's certainly not a shopping list, even though our recent diet leaves much to be desired." I nod towards the dining table, still bearing the remnants of Guy's earlier meal: an inedible looking pie and a large jug of ale.

Ignoring my attempt at humour, Guy breaks the seal – which if he'd taken the time to study carefully, he would have seen was the King's – and unrolls the parchment. His eyes travel down the manuscript and widen.

"Do you know what this is, Robin?"

"I would say it's probably a document pardoning your act of treason in the Holy Land."

"I did not think the King would go so far as..."

The parchment trembles as Guy re-reads the inked words, as if to be sure they actually say what they say.

"Guy. Richard may be arrogant and ruthless, but he knows how to reward those who have served him well, those who would risk their own life in order to save his. What you did today, in the castle, deserves no less."

"I don't know what to say."

"Well, I hope you're going to say you accept it. I'm certainly not giving it back," I smile.

Closing his eyes, Guy slumps back into the worn fireside chair. "Thank you," he says, though I'm not sure whether he's thanking me for handing him the parchment, or the King for giving it.

With Guy suitably distracted, I make my escape.

* * *

By the time I ride into the forest, I am bone-cold and my stomach is growling with hunger. I also have the uneasy feeling that someone is following me.

Guiding my handful of a stallion towards a familiar clearing, I dismount, securing its reins to a sturdy branch. Removing my riding gloves, I blow warm breaths into my cupped hands, trying to bring my frozen fingers to life. Then, with rather less agility than usual, I climb the well-remembered branches of the 'kissing tree' and squat on a particularly wide branch that Marian or I used to sit upon while waiting for the other to escape their father's ever watchful eye, or their tiresome chores.

A handful of heartbeats later, a horse and rider enter the clearing. There is enough moonlight to see that the horseman is wearing mail and riding a fine courser. As the man nears my hiding place, he looks up at the night sky. Instantly, I recognise Christophe's swarthy face and dark, neatly trimmed moustache. I nock and aim an arrow.

"Looking for someone," I call.

Christophe jerks his head in my direction. "Huntingdon."

"That's the Earl of Huntingdon, to you."

I glance at the surrounding trees and strain my ears for any sound not usual to the forest. Christophe appears to be alone.

"Don't you know the forest can be a dangerous place," I taunt. "I hear outlaws lurk in the greenery waiting to jump on unsuspecting travellers."

"And is that what you're going to do, _outlaw_, jump on me?"

"Well, I would, but I'm not an outlaw anymore. King Richard has rescinded that particular title for services rendered. Now, let's see. I wonder how he will choose to reward his Master-at-Arms for attempting to murder his most loyal subjects."

"Loyal! Gisborne is a traitor and you also by association. Any man who tries to kill my liege lord deserves to die."

"And any man who tries to kill my friends also deserves to die. Now, get out of my forest unless you want to become a permanent part of it."

"You won't kill me."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because when we were in the Holy Land, I used to watch you. Oh yes, you did your share of killing, when you had to, when there wasn't any other way. But you also spared the lives of the infidels if you could. Richard knew, of course, because I told him. But he never did anything about it because you were his blue-eyed boy."

"Tell me, Christophe, what did I ever do to you that would give you cause to hate me, apart from the fact that I held the King's favour?"

"Yes, you held his favour, but it was me that warmed his bed. I thought, given time, he would reward me for my _services rendered_. I was willing to do anything the King desired – anything! But whose name did he cry out as I slammed into his royal backside, as he spilled his seed onto the royal bed? Yours! Robin-fucking-Locksley. Not mine. Never mine."

"I think you'll find that Richard paid a lot more mind to his kingly duties than he did to his kingly playtimes."

"And I'm about to pay more mind to my duties as the King's man by ridding this forest of outlaw scum, starting with your friends."

"Then I hope you've brought plenty of provisions with you, because you'll be a long time trying to find our camp."

"I don't need to find it. An old crone I caught leaving your manor house kindly told me where it was."

_Matilda._

"What did you do to her?" I almost say, "and Guy?" but swallow the rest of my words in case Christophe is unaware that Guy is holed up in the house. My heartbeats quicken as I imagine Matilda lying on the cold, muddy ground, one of the few lives she is unable to save.

"Nothing. I merely said that I was looking for you and your friends."

"I don't believe you," I say, keeping my words measured despite my mounting fear.

"Believe what you will. I showed the old woman the royal insignia I wear and said I had just come from the King and had an important message for Robin Hood and his men and must find them at once. She was still suspicious, the stupid old bat, asked me if I'd taken the cross with you and, if so, did I know of the chain you used to wear around your neck and the story behind it. As you know, the King liked to drink, and talk, mostly about you and your exploits, so I knew the answer. That's when she told me, in careful detail I might add, the location of your forest camp. I thanked her most courteously and sent her on her way. I figured that as soon as the King let you go you'd be heading back to that pesky gang of yours and your traitorous lover, so I made my way to the forest and, sure enough, here you are."

Reassured that Matilda is alive and well and Guy has come to no harm, Christophe clearly unaware of Guy's injuries, my heart ceases its painful hammering.

"I think I should point out that, even if you manage to get past me, there are four of them against one of you."

"Ah, but I have the element of surprise, not to mention a small pouch of Greek fire on my person." Christophe pats his saddlebag.

"You're lying." I grip my bow tighter, ease the fletched end of my arrow to my ear. I may not be able to easily pierce his mailed chest, but I can certainly maim him or, if needs be, his horse.

With an exaggerated sigh, Christophe slowly unbuckles the saddlebag and withdraws a pouch, holding it up to show me. One look at the distinctive red and gold leather is enough to convince me that it is the same pouch I threatened Murdac's men with in the castle courtyard.

"How did you get hold of that?" My bow arm is beginning to tremble. I can't hold this position for much longer. I consider shooting the black powder from Christophe's outstretched hand but change my mind, not certain the arrowhead won't turn the powder into a fiery hell. Christophe is far too near to my vantage point to risk finding out.

"When I found I could not escape the tunnel," Christophe says, clearly enjoying the chance to brag, "I went back to the castle, first making sure the courtyard was clear of the living. I had thought to make my way out the main gate when the King's standard-bearer appeared and asked me if I had seen the Greek fire that Robin Hood had threatened to blow up the castle with. My interest was piqued, of course, and it didn't take me long to find the very same." Christophe grins, like someone who has worked out a trickster's sleight of hand. "I'm sure your camp is a lot flimsier than the castle walls."

Laughing, Christophe tucks the pouch back into his saddlebag. Drawing up alongside my horse, he pulls a dagger from his belt and cuts its reins from the tree. With a hefty whack on its hindquarters, he sends my horse off at a gallop and then spurs his mount in the direction of the camp and my friends who will be patiently waiting for my arrival.

"Give me the black powder or I'll shoot," I warn, aiming my arrow at Christophe's horse, knowing I cannot possibly catch him on foot, no matter how fast I run or how well I know the forest.

He keeps riding.

"Last chance," I shout.

Christophe reins in his horse, turns around and grins. "So long, Huntingdon."

A small oval of face, several yards distant. But I am the best archer in Nottinghamshire, possibly the whole of England. Christophe should have remembered that.

* * *

"Where have you been?"

"Well, that's a fine welcome, I must say." Dismounting Christophe's horse, I grin at Much's begrimed face. "Cooking disaster?"

"What? Oh, no. Well, yes actually, you see—"

"Much," John scowls. "I'm sure the last thing Robin wants to hear about right now is your cooking woes."

"I was not about to—"

"Robin!" Slopping water, Allan plonks down the pail he is carrying and sprints over to me. "Not being funny, but we thought maybe you'd forgotten about us and were living the high life in the castle, stuffing your face with whatever it is that kings and noblemen stuff their faces with."

"Would I do that?"

"Well, you might. After all, if the King has done what you said he would do, that means you've got your house and lands back, and your title, and we're out of a job."

"It's true, I have got my house and lands back, but as for you having to work for a living..."

Allan's eyes flick to the saddlebag.

"Uh, uh," I say, wagging at forbidding finger at him. "Before you make any sudden moves, I think I should warn you that that saddlebag does not belong to me. Moreover, it contains one small but rather deadly pouch of black powder."

"I thought the King gave you a stallion?" John says, staring at the dun courser and wrinkling his brow.

"That is not my horse, John. It belongs to Christophe. Or I should say, the late Christophe. And before you ask what happened, do you mind if I sit? It's been something of a day."

"You can say that again," Much sighs. "When I saw Murdac pointing that crossbow, I thought the King was done for. And as for that ridiculous stunt of yours."

"What? I do have some experience of jumping into cartloads of straw. I'm just grateful that John saw the danger we were in and managed to get the cart near enough for us to make the jump."

"How is Guy?" John asks.

"Thanks to Matilda," I smile, imagining Matilda, needle in hand, asking Guy how to write some obscene word, "Guy is quite well, although he won't be competing in any running races any time soon."

"And what about you?"

"I'm fine, nothing that a decent meal, a bath and a bed won't put to rights."

"We could probably do the bath and bed," Allan smiles, "but I'm not so sure about the meal." He deftly ducks as Much hurls a long-handled spoon in his direction.

"Very funny. Why don't you try catching and cooking a few things for a change. Then you'd see just how difficult it is to find and prepare food in this miserable forest."

"Much," I say, seating myself on the fallen tree where we take most of our meals. "I am hungry enough to eat the horse I've just ridden in on, so even if you're about to serve me bat stew, I won't complain."

"I wouldn't joke about it, Robin," Allan grins.

Muttering under his breath, Much returns to his kitchen.

* * *

Once we are all seated, bowls of steaming soup on our laps and a newly lit fire warming our hands and faces, I tell the gang about Christophe, omitting the part about the royal backside.

"Good riddance to bad rubbish," John says, before bringing his bowl to his lips and downing the liquid part of it in a series of enormous gulps.

"Wing of bat, eye of newt," Allan mumbles, pushing the contents of his bowl around with his fingers.

I laugh and choke on a mouthful of food. John bangs me on the back. I wave him away, croaking that I'm fine. Sometimes John doesn't know his own strength.

By the time I have drunk a large mug of ale, I am breathing normally again, much to everyone's relief.

"Blimey," Allan says. "You survive a pirate's blade, near drowning, a duel to the death and a pitched battle, only to die at the hands of your servant."

"I am _not_ Robin's servant," Much glowers.

"That's right," I say, my chest tightening at the thought that these friendly, or occasionally not so friendly, meal times together are almost over. "Not only is Much a free man, he is also the owner of a goodly sized and profitable estate. Indeed, he is a lord."

"You mean," Much asks, uncharacteristically laying down the piece of food he is about to shove into his mouth, "I have my Bonchurch?"

"That's right," I smile.

"Oh, God," Allan groans. "That means we'll have to start calling you Lord Much again."

"You can also," Much says, standing and dramatically hurling his soup bowl into the trees, "do your own cooking from now on, for I shall be served by _my_ servants."

Allan turns to me. "Tell me I have my own lodge, preferably somewhere far away – like France."

"Well, you don't actually have a lodge, but I believe there's enough gold back at Locksley for you to build your own if you so desire. You too, John."

John shakes his head. "I don't want or need a lodge, Robin. All I want is a bit of peace and quiet and the chance to go find my Alice and my boy again, share whatever wealth I have with them."

I nod in understanding. "What about you, Allan?"

"I don't know. I think I might do a bit of travelling, you know, see the world." Allan rubs his hands together and grins. I can't be certain whether it's a trick of the firelight or not, but I swear his eyes are glittering with more than the thought of being rich.

"On the other hand," he says, staring into the fire. "I might just stay here. Not in the camp I mean, but in Nottingham. There's this sweet little thing who works in The Trip who..." Allan trails off and I realise that a moment that should have been full of joy and eager expectation, is actually turning into something rather painful.

The fire cracks and spits, and I think of Guy and wonder if he has fallen asleep in front of the dying fire back in Locksley.

"I should tell you about the new sheriff," I say, summoning up a smile.

"Whoever he is, he certainly can't be worse than the last two we've had," Allan remarks.

"He's called William de Ferrers. Apparently, he's the Earl of Derby, but I can't say I've ever heard of him. Anyway, Richard speaks highly of him, and I'm sure he'll make a fine sheriff."

"I thought maybe you might be the new sheriff," Much says.

"No, I'm not sure—" I'm about to say I'm not sure I'm even going to stay in Nottingham, but seeing Much's long face, I decide against it.

"Not sure what?"

"Nothing. It's not important." I feign a yawn, the jumble of thoughts about what I should or shouldn't do in the coming days overcoming my earlier tiredness. If I weren't worried about how it would look, I would head back to Locksley now, despite the cold and dark, in order to avoid the inevitable questions about Guy and me and our plans for the future.

As if reading my thoughts, John leaps to his feet, says, "We'll all have plenty of time to decide where and how we're going to spend the rest of our days. Right now, it's late and we should sleep."

Giving John grateful looks, Allan and Much make for their beds.

I wait for John to follow them and when he doesn't, I bid him to sit and say whatever it is he seems determined to say to me.

For a short while, we sit in silence, staring at the dying embers of the fire. Then, with a sigh that reaches down to the soles of his boots John says, "I almost didn't do it."

"Didn't do what?"

"Move that cart so you and he could jump. I thought perhaps it would be a greater kindness to let it end there and then, so the people would remember you as Robin Hood, Nottingham's hero, not the person you've become."

"Do you detest me so very much, John?"

"You know I don't. And, if you want the truth, I have seen a side to Gis...Guy that I never thought I would see. But I still can't condone what you and he are doing, and I never will."

"I know."

"So, what will you do then?"

"I don't know yet. Would you rather I leave Nottingham?"

"It's your choice, Robin, not mine." John stands. "I'll say goodnight then."

"Goodnight, John. Sleep well."

* * *

When the fire is nothing but glowing ashes, and deeming everyone asleep, I make my cold and weary way to bed.

Much is not asleep. He is sitting on his bed, hugging his knees to his chest.

"I thought you'd be in the land of dreams," I say, tucking my bow and quiver under my bed along with my sword.

"I'm not tired," Much yawns.

I sit on the edge of my bed, give him my full attention. "Come on then, say it."

"Say what?"

"Say whatever it is that's troubling you."

Much fiddles with the edge of his blanket for a moment before saying, "Nothing is as I thought it would be."

"And how did you think it would be?"

"I thought that you would be in Locksley, with...with Marian, making...you know...babies, and I'd be looking after you both and—"

"What about Bonchurch? I thought that's what you always wanted?"

"I did. I do. I'm just going to miss not being with the people I care about, even if they do get on my nerves sometimes."

"What about Eve? You said you would go and look for her once Nottingham was safe and the King restored."

"But where would I start looking? No, Robin. I can't spend the rest of my days chasing a dream."

"It doesn't have to be a dream."

Much's head snaps up, his eyes alight with hope. "Will you help me look for her?"

"You know I would if I could, but I—"

"No, of course. You already have someone waiting for you."

"For what it's worth, I didn't think it would be like this either. If you'd said a year ago I'd be planning some sort of future with Guy, I'd have thought that you'd been eating dodgy mushrooms."

"Are you really happy with him?"

"Much, it may not be what I once wanted, or thought I wanted, but right now I would not have it any other way. Unlike you, I have never believed in the Fates, but maybe the moment Guy and I came to blows on that boat out of Acre we were destined to be together."

"Well, if that's how the Fates work, remind me never to get on the wrong side of Allan."

I smile and lightly punch Much on the arm. "At least you'd never go short of a purse," I say, thinking of Allan's light-fingeredness and wondering, even with the generous reward from the King, whether he will ever be able to change his ways.

"Nor jests about my cooking." Much bends and tugs off his boots with a blissful sigh. "I want you to know," he says, watching as I remove my leather jerkin and knife belt, "that if you are happy then I am happy."

"I am happy."

"Good. Then I will try to be happy for you. Oh, and just one more thing?"

"Yes?"

Much rubs his stockinged feet and slips them under his blanket. "Where you're back in Locksley, promise me you'll eat properly."

I laugh. "Not you as well."

"What?"

"Nothing. Go to sleep, Much."

"That's, go to sleep, my _Lord _Much," he says, tugging the blanket up to his chin.

"I think I might go to France with Allan," I quip, shivering and wrapping my blanket tightly around me.

* * *

I wake to the sound of heavy rain and the fearful thought that Guy has died in the night and I am alone again.

After hurriedly tugging on my boots and securing my knife-belt and weapons, I gather the few belongings I have stashed under my bed and make my way outside.

Despite the downpour, I had expected to see Much preparing the morning meal. Instead, the gang are busy packing up the camp with a haste that suggests they want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I notice someone has saddled my horse.

"No breakfast?" I ask.

Allan shakes his head. "I think Much has decided this lord thing starts today whether we like it or not."

"I think you'll find," John says, thrusting a bundle of something or other into Allan's hands, "that Much isn't up to catching our morning meal today."

"What?" Allan rolls his eyes. "One day of fighting and he's all done in?"

"One day of saying goodbye and he's all done in," John retorts, turning on his heel and striding towards our sleeping area.

Much is standing by my horse, fiddling with its bridle, even though I can see it needs no adjusting.

"All right?" I say, laying a hand on his arm.

"Yes, good, fine, wonderful. Apart from the rain thing." He wipes his face as he says this, but I don't think the rain is the reason why.

"Not much to show for all the time we've spent here, is it?" Much waves an arm towards the few bits and pieces lying in the middle of the clearing, getting soaked.

"It was never meant to be forever," I say.

"No, nothing ever is, is it?"

Much turns to face me and I pull him into a fierce hug.

"I hope Guy knows how lucky he is," Much mumbles into my shoulder, his hands clutching the front of my rain-dampened jerkin.

"He might not think that when I start giving away our newly acquired fortune to the poor."

Much tightens his grip. "Look after yourself, Robin."

"I will."

"And come visit me in my lodge so we can properly celebrate the King's return. We will have a great feast with lots of cakes...like the ones we had at that wedding in the forest when that girl with the necklace got married, and...I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

"Much?"

"What?"

"I'll miss you, too, my friend, but right now you need to let go of me, unless you want to come back to Locksley and practice your bedside manner on an injured man with very little patience, who resents wearing anything other than black leather."

Much lets go of me.

**to be continued...**


	34. Everything is a Choice

**Disclaimer: **Robin Hood belongs to Tiger Aspect and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended. All rights reserved. No monies are being made.

**A/N: **As this is the final chapter, I would like to take this opportunity to say thank you to everyone who has read/commented – **thank you! ** _Everything is a Choice_ and now _Endgame_ have been the two most satisfying Robin Hood fanfics I have written and the closest to my heart. Despite the 'slashy' element, this is, and always was, a love story.

And thank you** sunnyday30** for proofreading the majority of this fic and for saving me from making too many unintentional blunders.

* * *

_**Previously...**_

"_I hope Guy knows how lucky he is," Much mumbles into my shoulder, his hands clutching the front of my rain-dampened jerkin. _

"_He might not think that when I start giving away our newly acquired fortune to the poor." _

_Much tightens his grip. "Look after yourself, Robin."_

"_I will."_

"_And come visit me in my lodge so we can properly celebrate the King's return. We will have a great feast with lots of cakes...like the ones we had at that wedding in the forest when that girl with the necklace got married, and...I'm talking too much, aren't I?"_

"_Much?" _

"_What?"_

"_I'll miss you, too, my friend, but right now you need to let go of me, unless you want to come back to Locksley and practice your bedside manner on an injured man with very little patience, who resents wearing anything other than black leather."_

_Much lets go of me._

* * *

**Everything is a Choice**

"How could you!"

The slap is as hard and stinging as the first time she hit me. And, just as then, it catches me completely unawares.

"This is getting to be a habit," I say, righting the high-backed wooden chair that I stumbled into and turning to face Rowena.

"You deserved it," she snaps.

I touch my smacked cheek and my fingertips come away bloody. She has reopened a cut I got during the castle battle. I glance at the narrow door that separates the main room of the cottage from Thomas's bedchamber.

"Don't worry about Thomas," Rowena says. "His poor wife died three days ago and he has gone to church to pray for her soul. Well, that's what he says, though I think he is most likely with Tanner, drinking himself into a stupor."

"I'm sorry, about his wife I mean."

"Don't be. She was in a great deal of pain and is better off where she is now."

"So," I say. "Do you want to hit me again, or will you tell me what I'm accused of?" My arms hang loosely at my sides, ready to catch her hand if she decides to take another swipe at me.

There is a blazing fire in the grate, warming the small, sparsely furnished room. If I had gone directly to Locksley, I would be in dry clothes by now, sitting in front of the manor house's huge hearth, instead of standing here with a bleeding face, in rain-sodden clothes, working out how to tell the angry girl standing in front of me that I am no longer going to marry her.

"Thomas saw you." Rowena grips her grey woollen shawl, hugging it to her chest.

"Saw me where?"

"Running through the streets of Nottingham, with _him_."

"Him?"

"With Gisborne. He said men and dogs were chasing you. He saw you running down Battley Street. He said you were holding hands. Was Thomas mistaken?"

I shake my head.

"You told me you were going to end it with him, you promised."

"And you let me think I was the father of your child."

Rowena's dark brown eyes widen, she opens her mouth as though to protest but no words come out. The shawl falls to her feet. For the first time, I notice the swell of her growing baby.

My chest tightens as I think of Guy, in and upon whom I readily spill my seed, my children who will never be.

"How did you find out?" Rowena asks, folding her thin little arms across the straining bodice of her dress.

"It does not matter how I found out. And I did not come here to punish you for lying to me. I know why you did what you did and I do not blame you. What Murdac did to you was despicable."

Rowena glances at the cottage door. "If he finds out about the child and wishes to claim it, he might come for me. As your wife you could protect me, you could—"

"Murdac is dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"I should be. I was the one who killed him."

Rowena leans forward and, thinking she is about to fall, I quickly close the gap between us, grasping her upper arms.

"Here, it's all right," I soothe, drawing her into my chest and wrapping my arms around her.

I do not think for a moment that Rowena believed Murdac would want to have anything to do with his bastard child. But nor do I blame her for attempting to provide for herself and her child, for trying to bring about the kind of life denied her by an uncaring father and the company she had to keep upon his ridding himself of her.

"You're all wet," she sobs.

"That would be the rain." I stroke her loose hair, tuck a few strands of it behind her sticking out ears. "So you see," I say, "Murdac cannot hurt you now, or the baby."

Her crying soon subsides. I am not surprised. Rowena never struck me as the sort of girl that resorts to tears to get what she wants.

Easing out of my encircling arms, she wipes her wet cheeks, says, "I am glad he is dead. I only wish I had done it myself. I did try."

"I'm sure you did," I smile, touching my bloodied cheek.

"I should tend to that." Rowena picks up her fallen shawl and waves me towards a chair.

I nod, grateful to rest my tired limbs.

While she fetches water and cloth, I sit quietly, staring into the depths of the fire. I wonder whether Guy soon fell asleep after I left last evening and whether he managed to rouse himself from the fireside chair, or awoke this morning, stiff-limbed and cold, to find no fire in the hearth, nothing on the table other than the remains of a jug of ale and a day-old pie and no me.

Rowena places a bowl of water at my feet, wets and wrings out a strip of cloth.

"You've been cut here before," she remarks, tenderly dabbing my cheek. "There is a small white scar, like a sliver of moon."

I recall the fight with Dumont's men in Le Havre, before we sailed for England. Someone had been wearing a studded ring.

"I should learn to stop making people angry," I smile.

"So should I," she whispers.

I stare at the cooking pot hanging over the fire and my stomach growls.

"Hungry?" Rowena asks, putting the water bowl and bloodied cloth aside.

"If it's not bat stew, I wouldn't mind something to eat."

"Bat stew?"

"Sorry, private joke."

Rowena ladles a thick broth into a bowl and passes both it and a wooden spoon to me before pulling up another chair and sitting beside me.

"You're not wearing your ring," she says, watching me eat.

"I lost it."

"Oh, for a moment I thought perhaps..."

"You thought Guy and I had parted company since Thomas saw us in Nottingham?"

"Yes."

Another spark of hope dashed. I remind myself that Rowena's condition is not my fault, Murdac having raped her before I returned to Locksley.

"I should tell you that Guy helped save King Richard's life."

"Really?" Rowena says, screwing up her face in disbelief. "Next, you'll be telling me he's taken up embroidery."

I think of Guy, laying the fire, making up our bed, replenishing the water in our washstand.

"Give it time," I smile.

In between mouthfuls of belly-warming broth, I tell Rowena about our assault on the castle, Murdac's attempt to kill the King and Guy's heroic, if somewhat foolhardy, charge along the battlements.

"What Guy did was very brave," Rowena says. "After all the stories Much told me of him, it's hard to believe he would do such a thing."

"Guy has changed since he and I..."

"Since you became lovers," she says, patting my thigh as though she is forgiving an errant child for getting up to mischief. I had forgotten how easy she is with the idea of two men indulging in fleshly pleasures; I believe it was never the fact that Guy and I shared a bed but that I had chosen him over her that she resented.

"Even before that," I tell her, recalling our journey across France, ending in that shadowy alleyway, where Guy handed me my broken bow, his hand upon my shoulder.

Rowena kneels by the hearth to tend the fire and I realise that time is passing and I should get back to Locksley in case Guy needs me. Although I have every faith in Matilda, I have never forgotten the fever that claimed me in the Holy Land and how close to death I came.

Thanking Rowena for the food, I stand and unlace a coin purse from my belt. I hand it to her. She places the leather pouch on her lap and pulls the ties securing it. "Robin, this is a fortune. I cannot possibly take—"

"It is yours, yours and the child's."

Closing the purse, Rowena drops it into a small clay pot standing next to the fire's hearth. "Thank you."

I sheath my sword, strap on my quiver and slide my bow onto my shoulder. "What will you do, now that Thomas's wife no longer needs you?" There is no need to tell her that marriage to me is out of the question now.

"I don't know. I think I might stay here for a bit. Oh, I know Thomas can be a grouch sometimes, but he actually cares a great deal for me, says I am the daughter his wife could never have. And I think he would quite like to have a baby in the house."

"He may not think that when the child is screaming to be fed."

Rowena smiles. "Thomas will find out what I have to put up with then."

"There is always room for you in my village if you change your mind about staying here."

"Thank you, Robin. I will bear that in mind."

"At least promise me you'll visit Much, at Bonchurch. I know he enjoyed your company and you never complained about his cooking. Not that he will be cooking now, being a lord."

"Dear, sweet Much. I shall be happy to visit him."

"Good." With nothing left to say, I make my way to the door.

It has stopped raining. A weak sun is pushing through the scudding grey and white clouds.

"Look after yourself," I say. "And the little one."

"I am hoping for a girl," Rowena says, stroking the folds of her dress.

"Have you thought of names yet?"

"For a girl, no. But if I have a boy, I shall call him Robin."

"Well, let's hope that if you have a boy your Robin does not disappoint you as I have."

"You have not disappointed me, Robin. Indeed, I think it is I who has disappointed you."

"No. You are a brave girl who deserves a better life than I could ever give you. I hope this child will be the start of that better life. Take care," I say, swiftly kissing her cheek and stepping outside.

"You too."

She watches as I mount my horse and then shuts the cottage door.

* * *

By the time I reach Locksley, the day has grown old. As I step into the hall, I half expect to see Guy slumped in front of a darkened hearth, ready and waiting to hurl abuse at me for staying away so long.

Instead, I find a blazing fire, a table laden with food, and Guy limping towards me, a goblet in each hand and a smile on his face.

"What did they do?" he asks, handing me a cup of crimson wine. "Tie you to a tree?"

The pewter cup is warm to the touch, as though he has been holding it for some time.

"No. We packed up the camp this morning and I left ahead of the gang. I went to see Rowena."

"Oh?"

"If you recall, I asked her to marry me."

"I trust you un-asked her?"

"Yes."

"How did she take it?"

I finger my cut cheek.

Guy laughs. "You're getting slow if you do not see the hand of a young girl coming for you."

"Perhaps I let her."

He gestures to the table.

"Where did all this come from?" I ask, eyeing the meats, breads, fruits and cheeses piled in baskets and on boards and trenchers of various shapes and sizes.

"Word has quickly spread of the King's victory and the part you played in it," Guy says, clearly delighted by my reaction. "Your peasants have been knocking on our door all day wishing to show their appreciation. I told them you had business elsewhere and when they asked if there was anything they could do, I said they could bring food, and so they did."

"Have you eaten?" I ask.

"No, I waited for you, though I confess I did take one or two bites, and I should probably desist from drinking much more of this wine."

"My peasants can be resourceful, but even they can't turn water into wine," I say, raising my cup at Guy.

"The wine is courtesy of the King. Apparently, he wishes to see Sherwood before he departs for the coast and he sent a messenger here to ask you to accompany him. The man was most disgruntled when I told him you weren't here."

I take a couple of mouthfuls of wine, place the goblet on the table. "I'm glad to have escaped that particular duty. Richard is all for the outdoors, but I think traipsing through a cold, wet forest would do nothing for his temper."

Scrapping back a heavy dining chair, I sit, feasting my eyes upon the lavish spread in front of me. Guy limps to the other side of the table and sits.

"How is the leg?" I ask, picking up bits of foods at random.

"Not bad considering the mauling that scabby witch gave it."

"I should watch your mouth, Guy. One day, Matilda is going to put a curse on you."

"I thought you said she wasn't a witch. Besides, she's done that already." Slowly tearing meat from bone, Guy grins across the table at me.

"What?" I ask.

"For your sake, I hope this particular curse doesn't come true." He glances at his lap, looks up and meets my eyes.

I put down the chunk of meat I am holding. My heart beats faster. The low swoop in my stomach has nothing to do with being hungry.

Abruptly standing, Guy pushes his chair back and, with remarkable speed, makes his way around the table. I push my own chair aside and turn to face him.

"God, I've missed this," he says, placing warm hands on either side of my face and kissing me.

I grasp his shirt and yank him into my chest. He grinds his hips against mine. He's already hard, and I won't be long in catching him up.

The hall is warm and the shutters closed. Letting go of each other, we quickly undress.

"It'll be easier if you turn around," Guy says, pointing at his injured leg.

Nodding, I do as he asks, placing my hands, fingers splayed, on the table for support. Guy knocks a basket of bread aside and plunges a hand into a bowl containing a yellow-tinged cream.

"When in need," he whispers hotly into the back of my neck.

I jerk as he eases a cold, cream-slicked finger inside me, quickly followed by a second. My injured stomach is pressing against the hard edge of the table, but I want this more than I want to make myself comfortable.

"Sweet Lord," Guy moans, withdrawing his fingers and pushing his cock into me.

My arms are shaking. One of my hands slips, knocking over a jug of wine. Already, I am aching for release, but I can't lift my arms from the table and Guy revels in keeping me desperate and wanting.

"If any of those peasants of yours come knocking with dessert," Guy growls, "I'll fucking kill them."

He is deep inside me now, and I am willing to bear the cruel press of the table if it means I get to hear his helpless moan of surrender and feel the warm, wet spill of his lust.

"Tell me," Guy murmurs into the back of my head. "Tell me I am yours and you are mine."

"Now and forever," I manage.

"Good." He stills. His hands slide off my shoulders and grip the table's edge. He slams into me, hissing in relief as he comes.

Without giving him time to recover, I turn around, place my hands on his shoulders and force him onto his knees.

A handful of heartbeats later, I arch away from the table with a throaty cry of abandon. Guy grunts, spits and drags me down to face him.

I push my tongue into his mouth, run my hands over his naked flesh, mindful of his stitched leg. I want to protect him from those who would still like to see him pay for his crimes. I want to shout from the rooftops that he has paid many times over for what he has done and that I have forgiven him for Marian's death. Most of all, I want to prove to him that he is worthy of being loved, that I love him.

The stone floor is cold and hard under our knees, eventually forcing us to break apart.

"Shame we don't have any servants," I say, eyeing the spilled food and wine.

"We should really talk about that," Guy says. Clutching the edge of the table, he pulls himself to his feet.

"We will. But let's eat first. It would be a pity to let all this food go to waste." I am thinking of Much's plea that I should feed myself.

Guy licks his lips, grins. "I've already eaten."

Deciding it's too much of a bother to dress, I grab some bread and cheese and make for the stairs, and, after pinching out the candles lighting the hall and grabbing our discarded clothing, Guy follows.

* * *

I sit in bed, eating and watching Guy wash. When he joins me, I tear off a hunk of bread and hand it to him. When I tell him I'm thirsty, he resists telling me he's not my servant and offers to go downstairs and fetch us some wine. As he limps towards the curtained doorway of our bedchamber, I almost call him back, but then that cruel little part of me kicks in. After all the years Guy spent trying to capture or kill my friends and me, I think I deserve some small retribution.

Guy returns with the wine, placing both jug and goblets on the bedside table. He limps back to the heavy curtain and pulls it across the doorway in an effort to keep out the draught. Not that it will do much good; we still haven't fixed the broken window shutter and the last item of clothing we stuffed in there to plug the gap has since been used or lost.

"Looking at something, Locksley?" he grins, turning back to the bed.

"I was thinking we must be careful with that leg of yours. Perhaps it ought to be bound?"

"And I'm the Sheriff of Nottingham," Guy laughs. "You don't fool me, Robin. I know you like to look. And who wouldn't? After all, I do have the most magnificent, not to mention lengthy—"

He gets no further, as I snatch up his pillow and hurl it at him.

"No!" Guy howls, raising his arms in protest.

Too late, the pillow smacks him in the face. Savagely, he kicks it away.

"What?" I laugh. "It's only a feather-filled piece of cloth."

Despite his injured leg, Guy bounds towards the bed. He is not laughing.

I turn to look at the sheet where his dagger would normally lie, inexplicably afraid.

Lying on the sheet is not a dagger, but a ring, the ring he gave me all those months ago, in the forest, before that first heady kiss that changed everything.

"It was meant to be a surprise," Guy grumbles. "I wanted to wait for the perfect moment to give it to you."

"How about now?" I say, patting the sheet.

Guy picks up the ring and sits next to me, scowling.

"I'm sorry," I say, laying a hand on his thigh, the uninjured one. "I wasn't to know you had that hidden under there. How did you find it? You once told me the forest looked all the same to you."

"I admit it wasn't easy. But when I found the tree where I...where we..."

"Where you tied me up?" I offer.

"Yes."

I wonder if now would be a good time to tell him that I could have easily slipped my bonds if I'd wanted to.

"Go on," I say.

"That's it. I started scouring through the leaves until eventually I found it."

"When was this?" I ask.

"While I was overseeing the construction of the King's siege engines."

"If Richard had decided to make an inspection that day," I point out, "and you were discovered absent, you might have found yourself in trouble. Was a ring really worth the risk?"

"Yes," Guy says, handing me the engraved band of silver, "because it's your ring and because when I gave it to you, you chose to wear it when you could have easily thrown it away."

I slip the ring onto the middle finger of my right hand. There is enough light from both the lit candle and the moonlight edging through the broken window to make out the elaborately embossed G nestling among the leaping stag design ringing the silver band.

"Thank you," I say.

Guy swings his legs over the side of the bed, limps across to the corner of the room, picks up his pillow and limps back, a grim look on his face.

"What did I do?" I cry, as Guy whacks me round the head again, harder this time.

"Thank you!" he says, flinging the pillow aside and grabbing hold of my ankles, pulling me flat on my back. "I spend near on a whole day grubbing around in wet, mouldy leaves, looking for what comes close to being a needle in a haystack, and all you can say is _thank you_."

Curling his fingers around my wrists, Guy pins my arms above my head. He straddles my chest. "Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon and hero of Acre, when it comes to expressing gratitude, you're the world's worst."

"You're hurting me," I say, flicking my eyes towards my injured stomach.

"Fuck, I forgot." Guy lets go of my wrists and lifts off me. He turns and sits on the edge of the bed, reaches for the wine jug and pours himself a large drink.

"One for me?" I say.

"I'm not your bloody servant," he retorts.

"No," I say, sitting and pressing into his back, sliding my arms around his chest. "But you do love me and maybe a drink will help me express my gratitude."

Guy pours me a drink.

"To expressing gratitude," he says, hitting my cup with his and slopping a considerable amount onto both his legs and the bed sheet.

"To King Richard," I say, taking a mouthful of the finest wine I've had in a long time.

"Do you remember that barn?" Guy asks, retrieving his pillow and propping himself up against the slatted wooden posts at the head of the bed. "The one in St. Etienne?"

"Yes, I remember. It was raining and we were drunk."

"I wasn't so drunk," Guy says, "that I didn't notice you, face down in the straw, lying less than an arm's length from me, with those tight, backside-laced breeches, your boots off. I wasn't so drunk, that I didn't wonder what it would be like to fuck you."

"So you've said before," I smile.

I down the rest of my drink, silently hand my empty cup to Guy. He pours me another and tops up his own.

"You could have let me drown you know."

"Drown when?" I ask, watching the candlelight play on the silver-grey goblet.

"When I was imprisoned in the hold of that stupid, stinking...sinking...boat. You risked your life trying to unlock that damn cage when you could have just left me there, been rid of me. I still don't understand why you got me out."

"Everything is a choice, Guy, everything we do."

"What's that? Another one of your ridiculous sayings?"

"No, Marian's actually."

I turn my head. Through the gap in the broken window shutter, I can see the night sky and an edge of white moon. I wonder if Marian gazes, night after night, at the star-filled, moonlit sky above her resting place. I hope she is at peace. I hope she sleeps easy tonight knowing that her beloved Nottingham is safe, King Richard restored to his throne. Many moons ago, while looking for a caged pigeon, I proposed to her, and we agreed we would marry when the King returned to England.

"What is it?" Guy asks, lightly touching my scarred right arm, my mutilated Crusaders' Cross.

"Nothing. I'm all right."

Guy sets his goblet on the bedside table, prises mine from my hand.

"I know this is probably not the sort of friendship she had in mind," Guy says, "but I'm sure it is better than us continually trying to kill one another."

"You may be right," I say, turning the ring around and around my finger, "but when, and if, we get to Heaven, I think Marian might have something to say about it."

"Undoubtedly," Guy says, fingering the small, crescent-shaped scar under his left eye, courtesy of Marian's strong right arm and a large-stoned wedding ring.

"Sleep?" I suggest.

"Gratitude first," Guy says, tapping my ring.

We slide down onto the wine-stained sheet.

* * *

It's a little tricky, trying to avoid all our various cuts and bruises. There are lots of _is this all right?_ and _does this hurt?_ but, eventually, we find a comfortable position, on our sides, me spooning into Guy's back.

"Sixth letter of the alphabet?" I ask, drawing lazy circles up and down Guy's spine with one hand, the other draped across his warm chest. There is a faint odour of smoked wood and soil clinging to his skin, and I realise it's because he's not been wearing his usual leathers.

"Without the fight first, I hope?"

"Definitely without the fight first," I reply.

Face buried in his pillow, Guy blindly reaches out an arm, swears when he knocks a goblet off the bedside table.

"I've already got it," I say, pushing up onto my elbows and lifting the lid off the little pot of grease.

"Now you tell me," Guy huffs.

"It might be a little cold," I warn.

Guy merely grunts and twists his body to be as accommodating as possible. Even though the solitary candle has burned to almost nothing, I can still make out the circular shaped mole in the middle of his pale-skinned buttock, a small brown island in the centre of a creamy sea. I wriggle down the bed and give it a gentle kiss, and then a lick. Guy moans in appreciation. Slipping my tongue between his crack, I continue to teasingly lick, the grease on my index finger forgotten.

"Good?" I murmur, coming up for air.

"Fuck, yes. Don't stop."

Leaning over him, I see he is busy working himself. I re-slick my finger with grease.

"Robin," Guy pleads, as my fingers slip in and out, gradually opening him up, "I need to come."

"Then come," I say, again leaning over him, "while I watch." My free hand gently combs Guy's long hair away from his face.

"Such a filthy outlaw," he mumbles.

"Oi, enough of the outlaw." I disentangle my hand from Guy's hair and slide it across his uppermost hip and into his groin, cupping his ball-sack.

"Oh, my God, yes," Guy growls. With a hiss and a forceful jerk, he comes, partly on the bed, partly over the edge, onto the floor.

Fully hard now, I thrust into him. The bed's timbers creak beneath our combined weight and my increasingly fast pushes and pulls.

I do not last long.

* * *

It is morning. Bright sunshine is streaming through the broken shutter, casting a finger of light on the blanket covering us. Despite the wine and sex, we didn't sleep. Instead, we talked about inconsequential things, like what to do with the uneaten food on the dining table, where Guy might purchase some more leathers and whether we should ask the new sheriff to lower taxes.

Now, to the sounds of daily life starting up outside, I wrap my arms around him, wedge my cold feet between his warm ones, and tell Guy about the gang and their plans for the future.

I tell him about Much and his Bonchurch, about John wanting to seek out his wife, Alice, and his boy, John. He asks about Allan, and I tell him that I have no idea what Allan will do, other than he seems intent on remaining in Nottingham, for the time being at least. I propose we keep an eye on him. The new sheriff may be a fair and just man, as Richard suggested, but that doesn't mean he will turn a blind eye to crime, and I have had enough of breaking people out of Nottingham Castle.

"And what about us?" Guy asks.

"Well," I say, pressing my nose into his warm chest, "I think we should most definitely get a door for this room and fix that window. It's freezing in here."

"You know that's not what I meant."

"I know." Sighing, I sit, shivering as the blanket slips off me. I stare out the window. It is a new day. A new day with no king to save, no woman to un-betroth, no gang to lead. A new day when I must decide where we go from here. Guy is right. Too many people already know our secret and the rest soon will if the gossipmongers have their way. We are wealthy men now and wealthy men have a habit of doing what they like and getting away with it. Indeed, my people might even unwillingly accept our ungodly ways because I am their lord and what I say goes. But I can't do what I like, not because I am rich and a noble, but because I am, and forever will be, regarded as Robin Hood, the outlaw who championed the poor and the helpless, an honourable man in every respect.

Guy pushes himself up to sit beside me, our shoulders touching. He curls his fingers around my ringed hand. I smile, reminded of our early days together and our frequent hand-holding.

"Do you remember," I say, "when you once asked me if I would go to France with you and I said no?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Well, I will now. I'm sure it will be easy enough to find someone to run my estates for me. My people will forgive me many things, Guy, but not this." I indicate the soiled bed sheet. "And as much as I sometimes hated being Robin Hood, I do not want that name dragged through the mud and, quite possibly, my friends along with it."

"You just want to be loved," Guy says, letting go of my hand.

"Doesn't everybody?" I reply.

"You could deny it, if you are accused, say it was a malicious rumour spread by your enemies. After all, surely the estimable Robin Hood would never lie with a man, and especially if that man happens to be me."

"I could, but I think maybe it's already too late for that."

I think of Thomas, who saw us holding hands as we ran down Battley Street, the guards who came upon us, suspiciously close to one another, in the forest, Nessa, Elisabeth, the list goes on. And who hasn't wondered about all the weeks we spent in this house, just the two of us, with no servants, other than Elisabeth's irregular visits?

"You're probably right," Guy concedes. "Not so long ago, the only thing I was intent on was ramming your head on a spike. Now I am happy to break bread with you. I guess we were always fooling ourselves in thinking we could carry on without anyone suspecting we were up to no good."

"It was worth it, though," he continues, absently stroking my thigh. "Those weeks we spent here with no one bothering us. They were the happiest few weeks of my entire life."

I feel guilty and sad. Despite our shared grief over Marian and my misgivings about us becoming lovers, Guy still regards the three months we have spent together in Locksley as the happiest he's ever been.

"If we go to France, or somewhere else," I say, "we could have that again."

"No, Robin." Guy slides his hand from my leg, looks out the window. "A few weeks ago, I'd have jumped at the chance to go away with you, somewhere where no one has heard of Robin Hood, or Guy of Gisborne."

"Don't flatter yourself," I mumble.

Guy slaps my arm.

"Ouch, that hurt."

"You deserved it. I'm trying to be serious here. You've risked life and limb fighting to keep your peasants safe and fed, ungrateful lot though they are sometimes, fighting for your beloved Locksley. How can you possibly think of leaving it now, now that you've finally won the battle?"

"It's just people and timber and fields and—"

"No, it's more than that and you know it. This place is your life, it's everything you've ever loved and wanted. Otherwise why would you have come back here after Marian died?"

"I came back here because that's what I promised her I would do."

"Maybe. But I think you also came back because it's your home." Guy glances at the bedside table, at the curtained doorway and at the wall that we fucked against. He turns to face me. "If Marian were here now, what would she tell you to do? And don't give me one of your childish witticisms."

Resisting the urge to say _she would tell me to kiss you, long and hard, so she can see what she is missing,_ I say, "She would tell me to do the right thing, to think of my friends and the people I care about, which means leaving Nottingham."

"Perhaps Marian was not the best choice," Guy sighs.

We lapse into an uneasy silence. Outside, children shriek and call to one another as they play, a cart rumbles by, the March wind whistles through the manor house's timbers.

When I finally turn to look at Guy, I half expect to find him slumped against the propped pillow, eyes shut. Instead, he is staring at the rectangle of light stretching across our blanketed legs.

"Robin?"

"Yes?"

"I was thinking. If we leave Nottingham, together, it is unlikely to disprove the rumours about us bedding one another. If anything, it will confirm the fact."

He has a point.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" I ask.

Fighting a smile, Guy says, "I have a plan. Well, half a plan."

I laugh. "Really?"

"You don't know how long I've wanted to say that," he grins.

"So, what is this plan of yours?" I ask. "Because if it involves us pretending we're really brothers or non-identical twins, then you can think again."

"No, it involves Knighton."

"Knighton?"

"Yes. As you know, I once wanted lands of my own, my Gisborne. And as you also know, that is no longer important to me. But I think your people are well aware of my previous desires and would not think it strange that I should want an estate, especially as I now have the means to do so. So, I was thinking of rebuilding Knighton Hall, in memory of Marian."

"And living there?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Then we will not be together after all," I point out.

"Not always, no. But we will be near neighbours and neighbours visit. Besides, I've heard you're quite good at gaining entry into other people's property unseen. And there's always the camp if we want to be certain of some privacy."

"That's true."

I turn to stare at the cloudless blue sky. Pushing the blanket away, I slip out of bed and pad across to the window, throwing open the shutters despite the biting wind. Down below, I see women going about their day-to-day chores – hanging washing that will take ages to dry, carrying water from the well. And further off, the pond, besides which the village children play at their peril, where Guy and I once had a swimming race and where I first learned that perhaps he didn't hate me as much as he always made out.

I turn back to the bed.

"All right," I say. "We'll try it, and if it doesn't work out we can always reconsider. After all, there are always choices."

Guy looks me up and down.

"Now who's staring," I say. Shivering, I make for the pile of clothes that Guy tossed into the corner of the room last night. As I pass around the bed, Guy leans over and grabs hold of my wrist.

"What?" I ask.

"Seeing as the bed is already spoiled," Guy says, his lips spread in a sly smile, "shall we have a little fun? I mean, it's not as if we've got anything better to do today."

He yanks me onto the bed, rolls on top of me and looks deeply into my eyes.

"Sixth letter of the alphabet?" he grins, curling his long, slim fingers around my wrists and pinning my arms above my head.

"Ready when you are," I grin back.

I still don't know if this will prove to be my undoing. But as Guy presses his lips to mine, as he pushes his warm feet between my cold ones, of one thing, I am certain – faced with the same choices all over again, I would not choose any differently.

**THE END**


End file.
